Walking The Razor's Edge

by Ileandra Young

  A red flower drifted on the current, swirling across the ripples like a tiny dancer.

  Several others followed, red, yellow, white, all different shapes and sizes.

  Saar knew then that the burial ceremony was over and that the people had turned to the river to offer their last tributes to the queen.

  It pleased him to see flowers. Even with Octavian making himself at home in the palace, the sight told Saar that he was not the only one to mourn the Queen of Kings.

  Cleopatra’s passing—his failure—still ached in his chest, but the loss of Kiya distracted him with deeper pain.

  Singing began a short while later, voices raised high in a combination of Greek, Hebrew and Egyptian. The Greek voices sang loudest, forcing Saar to wonder if any of the poorer people of Rhakotis had been allowed to attend the street procession.

  It would be just like Octavian; to keep the rite for the rich only. For the people who secretly hoped he would add their fair city and the rest of the country to Rome’s growing empire.

  He snarled under his breath, baring his teeth at the empty river.

  The trail of flowers floated by unheeding.

  #

  Blending in was a simple matter of keeping his face and body covered. Though Saar’s size and height made him stand out, many locals seemed to take him for an invader. They certainly never spoke to him in Egyptian, choosing to speak Greek like the other soldiers from Rome.

  He overheard much news this way, listening to the conversations of others while hiding his face. Easy to avoid detection looking like a beggar: his clothes resembled rags, no longer white and gleaming like Cleopatra always insisted.

  He stopped beside a small fishing boat, watching the owner repair a net with skilled, nimble fingers.

  ‘Killed herself.’ The man nodded at his companion who laboured with another net on a neighbouring raft. ‘That’s what I heard.’

  ‘You heard wrong,’ said the other.

  ‘How would you know? Find any fish in that palace? Because that’s what you do all day, fish and bone, skin and sell, same as I.’

  ‘But I watch. And listen. Heard some soldiers talking—they say she locked herself in a room at the back of the palace when the Romans came. She killed all her servants with a dagger coloured silver, then cut her own throat. And, to make sure the job was done right, she put out her hand for a snake to bite.’

  Saar shifted slightly. A small motion, but too much for his weakened state. He slid down the incline, thumping into the damp sand at the bottom, on his hands and knees.

  The two men looked up in alarm.

  ‘What do you want?’ The first dropped his net and reached for a small knife.

  Surprise mingled with anger. Had the city come to this? So soon? Instant fear and mistrust?

  Saar stood slowly with his hands held out. ‘Just a poor man wanting food.’

  ‘Don’t look here, there’s none for you.’

  ‘You spoke of the queen,’ Saar persisted. ‘What of her burial?’

  ‘We didn’t go. That crooked nose soldier and his men kept us away. Said there would be prayers and a ceremony for us after her body went to Rome.’

  ‘Rome?’ Saar straightened. The sudden reveal of his true height startled the fishermen into backing off. ‘He can’t. She is Egyptian—a Pharaoh. She must remain here.’

  ‘Cleopatra was Greek,’ the second man snapped. Though unarmed he seemed the more agitated of the two. He held a flopping fish in his hand and wore its guts up to his wrist. ‘She was born a Greek and died it too. Don’t let her fancy words and processions and titles fool you. Nea Isis—pah! She was Greek. And now she’s Roman. Changeable as this river, even in death.’

  Later, as he ran from the harbour, Saar slashing that man’s throat and the gurgling shrieks which followed. The hot rush of blood sliding into his mouth. He remembered the blissful sweetness and the tingle through his limbs as the tribute helped to heal the lingering wound in his chest. In his mind’s eye, the second man floated away down the Nile, screaming that he couldn’t swim.

  What Saar couldn’t remember was how the fight began.

  #

  Saar hurried towards the cluster of houses grouped around a well in the shadow of three tall trees. Though the blue door he once sought lay in the dust several yards away, the house it belonged to remained untouched.

  Inside, a stool still stood beside the wooden table. Atop it lay his mother’s grinding stone, white with a light dusting of flour. His heart gave another throb at the empty stool. So much loss . . .

  ‘Kallisto,’ he called, ‘I have returned.’

  The girl peered out from behind a sack of grain, clear tracks cutting through the grime on her cheeks.

  He bit his lip. ‘You’ve been weeping. Again.’

  ‘I miss Mother.’ She rubbed a small bubble of mucus from her nose with the back of her wrist. ‘I’m lonely. And scared. Must you leave me?’

  He moved closer to the grain sacks, shoving one aside to sit on the floor in its place. When he held out his hands, she whimpered and crawled into his lap. Her hair tickled his nose, still laced with the scent of smoke and sickness. Her malady ran deep, beyond the reach of most physicians. The certainty saddened him for he knew of no other way to rescue her from the illness slowly poisoning her insides. The very air from her nostrils stank of death.

  ‘I always return,’ he murmured.

  ‘One day you won’t. Father didn’t. Mother went to buy bread . . . ‘

  Saar remembered the yawning knife wound in the dead woman’s throat. He recalled carrying her, washing her, wrapping her body with the few scraps of linen clean enough to do such service. Then he carried the body into the desert and dug the hole with his bare hands. Kallisto helped, but Saar felt comforted to put his god-touched strength to use.

  The little girl brought the few goods salvaged from the wreckage of her home. Cups, bowls, a small knife, two combs. A poor selection of items to give her mother comfort in the afterlife.

  As he whispered the prayers and covered her with sand, Saar hoped the woman wouldn’t be angry.

  ‘I’m sorry child. I went to gather news and to see the physicians about my wound.’

  ‘Is it better yet?’

  Saar shook his head.

  Mosi’s strike had been hard and true. Saar knew he should be dead like the rest of his children. Clearly his pact with Set lifted him above all worldly hurts. Even death.

  Yet the wound ached. Though outwardly healed, the agony speared him with every breath, with each exertion. Even with continued offerings of tribute, the healing process crawled. Pain followed him into sleep, colouring his dreams with images of Mosi. Night after night Saar woke shivering, sheathed in sweat, while Kallisto stroked his hair.

  ‘I’ll never leave you,’ he told her.

  ‘What if you forget me?’

  ‘Impossible. You saved me from death.’ When he saw her quizzical look, Saar smiled and wrapped an arm about her skinny shoulders. ‘I found you on my way to the palace, remember?’

  She nodded, thumbing her nose again. A cough rattled her chest, wet and painful.

  ‘Fires burned in hot, yellow tongues while men and women screamed in the streets. My soldiers ran for their lives, with no thought of fighting. The Romans cut them down. Mad with my own grief, I thought perhaps I should join them in death.’

  ‘Because of Mosi?’

  Saar gazed at her. It struck him how strange it was to share his woes with her, a child of a mere six years. While strong and mature, she remained a child. Yet she listened to his tale with the strict attention that only a young mind can give. And she pitied him.

  ‘Yes, because of Mosi.’ The name scraped his tongue like shards of bone. ‘I loved him.’

  ‘You still love him. That’s why you’re sad.’

  He rubbed his chest again, for the first time considering that the pain stemmed from his own feelings as well as the physical wound.

  For the first time since the
battle so many weeks ago, Saar allowed himself to be still. Think. Feel.

  His hands trembled on Kallisto’s shoulders. Dull cold wormed through his insides. When the first tear slipped down his cheek he knew she spoke truth. That hurt more than anything.

  ‘Your tears are red,’ she whispered. ‘Normal men cry tears of water.’

  ‘I’m not a normal man.’

  Kallisto wriggled from beneath his arm and knelt before him. She stroked the tears away with the pads of her thumbs. ‘Please don’t cry. Maybe he loves you too. You can find him and ask; you said he still lives.’

  ‘Yes . . . he lives.’

  ‘If I had someone who loved me, I would want them to find me. Then I wouldn’t be alone.’

  He touched her cheek. ‘You are not alone. You will never be alone again.’

  She grasped his thumb and kissed it.

  ‘Child, I thank you, but you cannot understand. Mosi cost me everything. My queen, my country, my first love—yet I love him still. He survived when all others perished but . . . if I’m to know peace, he must die.’

  ‘Won’t that hurt?’

  He lowered his head. The truth would no doubt frighten her, so instead he said, ‘Not as much as knowing he lives when Kiya is dead.’ Barely had the words left his mouth before he knew what must follow. He stood. ‘Kallisto, I must leave this place. I must find Mosi.’

  Her eyes widened and shimmered with tears. ‘You’ll leave me?’

  ‘You won’t be alone. There are many families with space in their households. I’ll compel them to take you in.’ He lowered his hand and pulled her upright. ‘Come.’

  ‘No.’ Kallisto bit her lip. She followed him to the door but refused to step through, folding her arms and staring up at him. The filthy ropes of long hair knotted in clumps about her face. Though small and young, in that moment she had a stubborn look about her Saar recognised. A sense of the girl-queen Cleopatra lingered in the petulant twist of Kallisto’s mouth.

  ‘You must. I’ll find a good family for you. You’ll be safe and loved as much as any other child. Maybe more. I can make them favour you above their own blood kin. You could live in Brucheum.’

  ‘But I want to be with you.’

  ‘My road takes me away from Alexandria. Perhaps from Egypt. Mosi travelled north. He may be on a ship by now and if he crosses the sea it will take many months to find him.’

  ‘When we buried Mother you promised to protect me. Would you break your word with the dead?’

  A ripple of unease prickled down Saar’s spine. ‘I said I would protect you as far as I am able. Giving you a family is good protection.’

  Kallisto frowned. ‘But then you’ll leave. What if they reject me? Or if the Roman men return? Even with a family I may be hurt. The only way to protect me is to keep me with you.’

  Despite himself, Saar smiled. ‘You are sly, child. You would do well without me, I think.’

  ‘But I don’t want to. You’re my father now.’ She left the doorway and wrapped her arms around Saar’s middle. Her head she lay against his hip. ‘Please don’t leave me.’

  There were dozens of reasons why the girl should remain. Saar considered them all, while his free hand absently stroked the knotted black hair. He gnawed his thumbnail for a moment then crouched low enough to peer into her eyes. ‘You’ll do as I say? When I say?’

  Her expression brightened. ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘You’ll hide if I say hide? Stay if I command it?’

  ‘I’ll follow you forever.’ She coughed again and the liquid gurgle of the sickness filling her lungs told Saar “forever” couldn’t possibly be more than a month. Two with luck.

  Chapter Four

  Movement.

  Road noise.

  Brightness.

  Lenina growled and rolled on to her back, covering her eyes with both hands to shield them from the dazzling light set into the ceiling. Something cold rubbed her face. Hard. Shiny.

  She opened her eyes again, but the light stabbed in, drawing a deep groan from the depths of her throat. The hard, shiny thing knocked her chin and she recognised the curve of a thick steel loop. And another. And another.

  Saar’s voice was normal, but something about his presence felt sluggish. Awkward. He nudged her by rattling the bars of his mental prison, even that a half-hearted gesture.

  Another roll took her to her left side. Something resisted, drawing both hands back towards where she’d come. Opening her eyes again hurt, but damn it she needed to see.

  Chains, sure enough. Thick lengths of them looped through shackles about both wrists. More around her waist. Ankles. Another arching away from beneath her chin. Only then did she notice the collar, stiff and cold against her throat.

  ‘Miss Miller?’ The voice came from above. To the left. ‘Miss Miller, can you hear me?’

  ‘Officer Jackson?’

  Her tongue resembled chunks of wood wrapped in cotton wool. Her throat burned with thirst, the nice normal kind.

  ‘I think you’d better call me Shawn.’ The police officer sighed and shuffled into view. His arms stretched behind him, shoulders pulled back at an uncomfortable angle. Thin loops of rope bound his ankles together. ‘Can you sit up?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t try. I have no idea what he gave you but you dropped like a stone. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘What happened?’ Flashes of colour fizzed across her memory. People shouting. Blood. Fear.

  Shawn tossed his hair out of his eyes with a practised flick of the head. ‘The one with the gold teeth injected you with something. I tried to help but the skinny one knocked me flat and shoved me in here. He took all my gear, cuffed me and chained you to the floor.’ He hesitated, gaze flickering away from her face. ‘They used a lot of chains.’

  Lenina rolled to her back once more and felt her way along each chain, following the links to where they met a thick ring set into the floor of the van. Enough slack to sit up, but not to stand. Enough to lift her arms and touch her feet.

  She eased into a sitting position and put her back against the wall of the van. ‘Give me a minute.’ Her mouth seemed to have an extra tongue. ‘Let me think. I can—I’ll break them—we’ll climb out the back. Escape. Run . . . why are you spinning?’

  ‘Maybe you’d better lie down.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She stiffened to stop her body sliding to the right.

  ‘Your head was bleeding. You might have a concussion.’

  ‘Maybe. Perhaps.’ She touched her cheek. ‘I don’t know. I just need to think—’ The chains slithered from her hands, pooling on the floor in a shiny pile. Dizziness cleared in an instant. Fragments of memory crashed together to display a clear, horrifying picture. ‘What happened to my dad?’

  Shawn stared at the floor. ‘It was quick.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He . . . I think it was a heart attack—or a stroke—I’m not sure. He had some sort of fit. The last I saw was him bleeding on the pavement. There were sirens when we left the house—maybe it was an ambulance. Maybe—’

  Lenina heaved against her chains. Three links snapped immediately, spinning broken chunks of metal across the back of the van. The slack on her right side increased and she used it to pull again at the chains on her left. One of the rings in the floor groaned, then shot free, dangling a piece of wood behind it.

  Screams fell from her lips. Long, shrill, agonised bellows, over and over as she continued to force her way out.

  Tyres screeched. Horns blared. The scent of singed rubber floated through the air.

  The van rocked forward and threw her on to her face.

  An idling engine.

  Sunlight speared into the small space as Darryl threw open the rearward doors. The furious expression on his face melted away when he spotted the broken chains. ‘Holy Jesus. How are you even standing?’

  Lenina threw herself at him. The chain linking her collar to the floor groaned, but held,
pulling her up short three feet from his stunned face. ‘What happened?’ She clawed the air like an animal. ‘My dad? What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t do anything—’

  ‘You did!’ Tears blinded her. Heat flushed her neck and face, burning, searing, smoking. ‘He was no threat to you. He was only human. He didn’t know.’

  Darryl shook. He inched his way across the narrow gap. ‘I kept my word, girlie. I always do. I told you I wouldn’t hurt anybody if you came quietly. When your pops decided to pull a Bruce Lee on us the only person I hurt was you.’

  Her pull on the chains eased off. Strength flooded from her limbs. Lenina sagged, panting against the side of the van. The white-hot surge of rage faded like lighter fuel. In its place, welled horror, black and choking.

  ‘My dad—do you think the ambulance got to him? Do you think he’s okay?’

  Instead of answering, he climbed into the van. He did it slow, one hand extended before him, the other clutching a short syringe filled with clear fluid. ‘No clue, girlie. Not my job to worry about humans. Fetch you, that’s all I was told.’

  She lunged, fingernails grazing the side of his face as he threw himself backwards. He thudded on to the road. The syringe flew from his grip.

  ‘Monster!’ she roared. Fire burned through her insides. It seared away the last cobwebs fogging her brain and left everything hard and clear as crystal.

  To the side, Shawn cursed and scrambled to the rear of the van on his hands and knees. When she faced him, he crossed himself. ‘What are you?’

  No need to feel for the changes; Lenina knew her fangs were exposed. That meant her eyes were black, whites and irises blanked out by inky darkness.

  Shawn’s face slackened, his skin ashen, breathing rushed and uneven. In that moment, though there were no similarities between them, Lenina was reminded of Nick. Her fiancé’s last moments played before her eyes: his terror-struck face, bloodied strands of blond hair, the sweet nectar of his blood as it rushed down her throat.

  No . . . I’m the monster.

  ‘What are you?’ Shawn insisted.