At the easternmost edge of Duat, the primordial river bubbles up from the sands. Little rivulets intertwine into streams and those join to form the river. Beyond these stands the greatest of pyramids, white and smooth with a gold cap from which a concentrated beam of power fires. Where the beam strikes the rock ceiling, the rock turns molten and flows upward, exploding somewhere on the surface.
An opening in this pyramid leads to a slanting shaft. This is the hall of my judgment. When Ammit roars, his voice is near.
Words are etched above the opening to the hall, and, though I’ve never seen the language, I understand.
Summoned or not, the god comes.
I fly inside and land upon the tilted floor, but as I land, I am elsewhere. The hall is flat and open, marked by ancient pillars.
The pillars of the hall run through the rooms where Moira and Urban once lived. Moira scattered and smashed the works and shredded the books beyond recovery. Amani lies on a cot between the window and the workbench as if the ruined work might restore her to health. A fever’s sweat runs down her face.
The goddess Maat steps out of the shadows. She holds in her hand the ostrich feather against which my heart will be weighed. I stare at Amani and know, as I have always known, that I must be judged.
From Amani’s birth until she left Alexandria was twelve years, Maat says. From the time she began training under me, until her return to Alexandria, was twelve years. From the time of her return to the crowning of the queen was twelve years.
I look at Maat, not understanding. Cleopatra became pharaoh almost immediately upon Amani’s return. Twelve years later, she was giving birth to Anthony’s children, and Amani had been dead for a decade.
Fire destroys, Maat says, but it also purifies.
Amani is gone, and Pompey’s head smiles at me. Pothinus offers it to Caesar, thinking it will bring us favor, but Caesar cries in horror at what we’ve done. Pothinus looks to Theodotus as if this were his fault, and, perhaps, it is. Theodotus looks at me.
If we have failed, I say, we did so out of devotion to you.
Caesar is tall and muscular. At fifty, his hair has a hint of the darkness of its youth, beneath a sheen of silver most prominent in the sun. His complex face speaks of both intelligence and rugged strength, and his eyes silence me with a glance.
He arrived in Alexandria before us and took up residence, not in the governmental buildings with its offices and banquet halls and rooms enough to house a hundred guests, but in the chateau beside Lochias. It is beautiful and difficult to guard. His choice to sleep here speaks to an assumption of power in a foreign capital, even if one under the wing, if not on the leash, of Rome. He moves among us with the same aura of invulnerability he must have shown in Gaul.
Where is the queen? he asks.
She's turned against me, Ptolemy said.
Against her country and against Rome, his advisors added.
Caesar looks to me.
Our armies are in battle at Pelusium unless she has already fallen, I say. Pharaoh outmatched her Syrian forces, and the outcome was already certain when we received news of your approach.
You seem more bothered at this betrayal than your friends, he says.
I was her tutor.
And now? Where is your allegiance?
Cleopatra has my love, I say. Alexandria has my loyalty.
Caesar puts his hand on my shoulder. Such is the complexity of man, and it is by that complexity you will be judged.
I don’t understand, I say.
A man’s life either justifies creation or condemns it. He turns to Ptolemy. It was my wish to meet with both you and Cleopatra.
His sister is dead, Theodotus says, and if she is not, she is in rebellion against us all, Rome included.
Caesar hides the hint of a smile as he studies the young Ptolemy. Very well. Tonight, I grieve a friend. Tomorrow, we turn to the matter of your father's will and your family's debt.
Debt? Ptolemy asked, but his advisors silence him, bid their farewells, and usher us to the door.
Philostratos, Caesar calls, stay. Your feather awaits.
On impulse, I bow before him as I would before Pharaoh. I am yours to command.
Caesar drinks little and spends much of his time writing. A pen of bone protrudes through his wrist, and his history is written in blood.
With the shutters open to the night, the chateau has a beautiful view of the harbor, framed by granite columns resembling palm trees.
I've just remembered that you know Cato, Caesar says and looks up from his writing.
Drunk and stupid, I tell him Cato is the most honest man I've ever met.
He will pass on to the fields of rushes, Caesar says, but you’ve come all this way to be devoured by the beast.
He writes: the journey is the same, whatever the destination.
It's the nature of a republic, Caesar says. There's no singular vision, no strength. The senators think themselves great because governors in the provinces act in strength while the senators bicker and accomplish nothing. Cato was happy to govern by stalemate because nothing mattered to him but personal integrity. Let Rome collapse yet Cato remain pure. I ask you, is that the moral and good approach?
No, I say. We have to look beyond ourselves to the greater organism.
Organism? he asks.
The integrity of the system outweighs the integrity of the individual.
Can an unjust man lead a just system? he asks.
I hesitate in my answer.
Caesar smiles. No one else can, that's for damn sure.
A soldier presents himself and whispers in Caesar's ear. Caesar looks to the night beyond the open wall and then to me. He gives his orders, and the soldier runs outside; Caesar's eyes remain fixed on me.
Did you know about this? he demands.
I am about to ask what it is I know when Caesar's attention returns to the night. A young Sicilian enters with a bag thrown over his shoulder.
Her body? Caesar demands.
The Sicilian nods, sets the bag down, and pulls it away, revealing Cleopatra. Her eyes open. She looks up at Caesar and smiles.
Papyrus 6.40
Caesar offers Cleopatra food, a basin to wash herself in, and oils and spices for her clothes and hair. She thanks him as if these are not her possessions. Perhaps, they no longer are. That is what Caesar means to decide.
She crushes fresh spice and lowers her nose to the bowl, allowing the vapors to singe her sinuses. She gasps, yet holds the bowl in place to awaken the mind and sharpen the tongue, and then follows it with a mug of goat's milk and a handful of dates.
Caesar watches her, saying nothing. I try to measure her in his eyes: the wealthiest woman in the world, but only if he allows it to be so. Her sister, Arsinoe, still small and delicate, met him before Ptolemy arrived and declared herself to be Cleopatra's successor and the new queen of Egypt. If Caesar wills it, Arsinoe's claim will be fact. Physically, Arsinoe may be Caesar’s better choice, if he intends to cuckold Pharaoh, and she would be easier to control.
Yet, Cleopatra led an outmatched army against her brother and turned it into a diversion for her perilous journey. She entered her brother's palace, undetected, and presented herself by night as her siblings slept in overfilled beds. All of this must pique his interest, even before she speaks, and it is with her words that Cleopatra's beauty reveals itself.
She regales him with the tale of Alexandria since her father's death, sparing none of her indiscretions. He will know them all soon enough, but she also explains her reasoning and the philosophy of politics by which she sacrificed her standing with her troops to do right by Rome.
Even after she has finished recounting our history, and after they have discussed her father's will, their talk continues. They talk of his battles and her studies and of the wonders of medicine she has recorded in her own words. They talk of Pompey and Rome; they cycle through the languages of Caesar, conversing easily in each until he comes to Gaelic, which she counter
s with Egyptian.
They talk on, even as I fall asleep in my chair. In the morning, Ptolemy returns, finds Cleopatra with Caesar, and runs out into the streets, crying treason.
Shattered remains of delicate experiments lie untouched on the benches, and Amani, on her pallet, awakens to the touch of Cleopatra’s fingers upon her shoulder. She remembers such awakenings. Each time, Cleopatra kneels on the floor beside her, holds her hand, and shares stories that now swim to and away from her, revealing themselves in glimpses, like a school of fish venturing into the shallows.
My way out is through Rome, Cleopatra whispers. Forgive me.
Amani says nothing. Cleopatra expects nothing different and stretches out on the floor beside her.
It might be that none of us survive this, she says. What is my brother against Caesar? It’s not that simple. Caesar came with less than two legions. The winds keep his ships here, so we cannot flee. Citizens, guards, and whatever forces my brother could muster have us surrounded, and Achillas will soon head this way with troops, weapons, and a fresh delivery of fuel from Cyprus.
Amani remains silent.
It’s true, Cleopatra says. We caught Pothinus with the message. Caesar had him executed. She pauses and her eyes trace the spot where I stand, but she looks through me, unseeing. If my brother succeeds, he will have killed both heads of the Roman civil war, and the Senate would rush to thank him, I’m sure.
There is something you can do for me, Cleopatra continues. Whatever happens here, I need to know you’re safe. I have an opportunity to get you out, and, even if you were to stay, nothing can ever go back to what it was. Politics has come calling.
I am determined that my son, an heir of Caesar, will be the next pharaoh; in such a child we would have a hope that Egypt might thrive alongside Rome. In you, I have known love, and that love will live as long as we do. Our relationship cannot. Caesar’s detractors and his supporters will unite against me. They will know as well as I the threat posed by a son of Caesar, sitting on the throne of Egypt. I must show myself better than them all. There is no room for love left before me, and, if I were blind enough to ignore that fact, Rome would use you to destroy me, my son, and our Egypt.
Cleopatra kisses her and rises to her knees.
They’ll come for you soon, to take you and Philostratos to the Library. Philostratos will arrange everything from there, my love. We will not see each other again.
Only when Cleopatra leaves does Amani sit up.
“Philostratos,” she says.
You can see me?
“Of course.”
My wings flutter, and I look down at the metal proboscises where my hands should be. Does this look normal to you?
“I won’t go,” she says.
Now, I see it. The sweat-stained tunic is new. Her eyes sparkle. A fresh design decorates her wig as if Iras had just left, and she is tiny and young, like when we first met.
This isn’t right, I say. You die in the library, not here.
“I’m not dead.”
Not dead, perhaps, a fever dream.
“I won’t go.” She looks up at me with an innocence I had almost forgotten, an innocence that tortures with the pain of its loss.
I pull her to my chest, and I can feel the warmth of her flesh through my shell. The warmth tells me she is real, and the reality catches in my throat and burns at my eyes. I’ve wanted this moment, to hold her and speak to her, and, to have it now, in the moments before Ammit devours my soul in judgment, seems too great a blessing.
We need to talk, I say.
“You need to talk to Cleopatra.”
Amani doesn’t know she’s dead already, has been for twenty-three years. If it were possible to take counsel with Cleopatra and stop her from sending Amani away, I would do so and uncut fate’s thread. There would never come a moment where I drew my sword against the woman I raised like a daughter.
“You and Cleopatra are my life,” Amani says.
She has simplified her existence in that statement, distilled it down to one unified concept: love. But life is not simple. Amani is a duality of personal desire and generational responsibility, and desire would only blind her so long.
I’m sorry, I say. Forgive me.
She steps out of my grasp, her eyes narrowed, her mouth cruel. Even in her fever, she realizes things are not as she supposed.
Papyrus 6.41
Alexandria
Amani awoke in the Library. I had made a room for her in the subterranean hall, with the great white wall and its etched figures. I felt the grandness of its space adding to her isolation. She looked up at me. I gave her water and beer and as succinct an explanation as I could manage.
“I remember her lying beside me,” she said.
“She came to you often.”
“Only to send me away. Help me sit.”
I warned her to be careful; she had been bedridden for weeks. The realization of lost time settled in her face, wide and open.
For days, I nursed her, and she fought against pain and weakness to walk again. She peppered me with questions, and I told her the fate of the books in Moira’s room. She asked about the Serapeum. Had they replaced the books she took to Kush? I took the questions as the curiosity of a mind returning to its world.
Not knowing the answer, I journeyed to the Serapeum. The library stood outside the walls of rubble the Romans had built to defend their position. On this side of the wall, Alexandria laid siege. Upon my return, I told Amani what I had seen of the city and answered her question. They had not made new copies.
I should have suspected her plan. In my defense, it was unthinkable.
Amani exercised daily until she could climb the grand stairway. A few days more, and Amani and I climbed to the parapet-adorned roof. It overlooked much of the Royal quarter, the harbor, and Paphos island. The families of the island village came out to welcome the morning's return of fishermen, their boats heavy with a catch that would soon be sold to families throughout the city.
“I’ll sleep here,” Amani said.
I brought her things up to her, and we settled in to live on the roof and to watch. Once a day, she would journey below to the room dedicated to the Cypriot books, and she would read. Sometimes, she would cry.
She slept on the roof and waited. I stayed with her.
We heard a tumult from the harbor and caught glimpses of the battle Amani had anticipated. Ships erupted in flame.
Cleopatra had given me a sword when we left the palace, and I unwrapped it from its cloth for the first time. Feeling its weight in my hand, I warned Amani I was no warrior, but I thought us safe atop the Library.
The fire spread to warehouses along the harbor. Water cannons fought back against the flames. A warehouse exploded, filling the sky with fiery shrapnel.
I felt the next explosion in my head. Jagged blades of fire rained down upon us. We pulled a blanket over us and huddled against the parapet. Wood pierced the fabric at our feet and set it ablaze.
We rolled free, but Amani dragged the burning cloth behind her. I assumed she meant to smother the fire. She carried the burning blanket behind her to the stairs and down into the library.
I grabbed my fallen sword, used it to sweep clear a path, and followed her. The blanket, now more fire than cloth, followed her across the stone floor to the Cypriot room.
Across the slow infinity of those seconds, I understood what she meant to do and held out my sword, as I’d seen soldiers do. “You won’t burn the heritage of your people. I won’t let you.”
“Once Egypt unites with Rome,” she said, “the knowledge will be theirs. Rome’s expansion will never end. Their machines will march through the cities of Kush, and I will be the one who made it happen.”
“This is what your grandfather wanted and what we gave our lives to make happen,” I said. “You’re not well.”
“It’s easy now to claim what he wanted. History is as we wish it to be.”
I struck down with my sword to cut loo
se the cloth from her hands, but the weight of the sword was strange, its path not what I anticipated. I missed the cloth. The tip of the blade struck down across her face and traced a line across her eye.
Amani screamed. She stumbled and fell among the books. The blanket whipped its fire across the stacks. Scrolls ignited, and clouds of fire rolled up the shelves and across the ceiling.
I reached for Amani but found only flame.
Papyrus 6.42
Duat
We stare at each other in the Hall of Two Truths, Amani and I. Maat waits at the scale with her feather. Osiris sits in the judgment seat, and Ammit paces in the beyond.
“Where are we?” Amani asks, still a little girl of six, clinging to my side.
It’s the end of my journey, I say. I can finally lose the weight of my guilt and step out into the teeth of oblivion.
“Judgment for what?”
For killing you and for so much more.
Beyond the pillars marked with their negative confessions, eternity is consumed with the light of Ra. He will soon reach the end of his journey and rise, bringing a new day to the land of the living. The eyes of Ammit reflect that light.
I turn to Amani to make my final confessions and lay before her all my guilt. She listens, and when I am done, I face Maat, knowing there will be no forgiveness, no redemption. There is only guilt and innocence, and I know the weight of my heart.
“Don’t I get to say something?” Amani asks.
Yes, please, it is only right.
She lays her face against my armored chest. “If I’m going to give my life, I have the opportunity because you gave yours to me.”
I didn’t give my life, and you didn’t give yours. I took it.
“I don’t mean you died for me. You lived for me and for the promise you made my grandfather. You made me understand one simple thing. I was loved.”
I close my eyes, but whatever I think I’m holding back, it won’t be stopped.
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