Hand of Isis (13 page)

“Is it money he wants?” I asked.

Iras shook her head, bending over the letter, her brows knitted. “No. Troops. He wants Gnaeus to take all of the men he brought with him and come to Greece immediately. It seems that Caesar has driven him from Italy, and Pompeius intends to make a stand in Greece. He directs Gnaeus to set out without delay, as any delay may be critical.” Iras looked up. “That’s a mixed bag.”

“We get rid of Gnaeus, anyway,” I said, glancing toward Cleopatra.

“And his troops,” she replied. Cleopatra turned, leaning on the window ledge. “Which leaves us with nothing but the mercenaries Auletes hired, and no actual Royal Army except for them. And their loyalty is for sale to the highest bidder.”

“Reconstituting the army would take money,” I pointed out. “Especially since the mercenaries have to be paid.”

Cleopatra stretched back on her arms. “Sometimes I hate Auletes,” she said. “He managed to mortgage the kingdom and destroy the army at the same time!”

Iras laid the scroll carefully on the table. “What else could he have done?”

“Nothing!” Cleopatra began pacing again. “It’s as well to be rid of Gnaeus, and that’s a pause at least in the relentless demands for money, but his troops . . .”

“Are what secured your throne,” Apollodorus said. “Gracious Queen, if I were you I would be very careful.”

“I mean to be,” she said.

T
HREE WEEKS AFTER
Gnaeus Pompeius sailed for Greece, we were all placed under arrest by order of Pharaoh Ptolemy Theodorus.

I
looked into the mirror, and the Queen of Egypt looked back. Beneath the heavy black wig with its hanging plaits, eyes rimmed in kohl gleamed under shadowed brows, the green malachite paint on my eyelids drawn out to the very corners. My lips were red, my skin pale, more a mask than a face in the formal paint.

“Try this,” she said, and I felt the weight as the uraeus settled upon my brow. The gilded cobra seemed almost to move in the dim light.

“You’ll do,” Iras said. Her sharp dark eyes met mine in the mirror as it tilted, her face beside mine. “You’ll do if no one sees your eyes in the light.”

Cleopatra bent, tilting the mirror again. “No one should see her that closely,” she said. “It will be dark, and she will have her head inclined a good part of the time.”

Iras grimaced. We had played The Game for amusement, but now it was deadly earnest. If Cleopatra stayed in the palace, it was only a matter of time before some assassin succeeded. It might be that she was only kept alive until after the holy days, because if she were not able to do the Queen’s part in the ceremonies there would be talk. On the other hand, the ceremonies themselves might be the focus of an assassination attempt. An attack by a seeming madman, cut down by Pharaoh’s guards in the full view of the city, would deflect suspicion from him.

When I had taken a knife for her in the past I had only a moment to think on it. Now I should deliberately and coolly provoke it.

The rites of Isis, like those of the other Egyptian gods, required the ancient dress of the Black Land. The gown was sheer linen, almost translucent, pleated into dozens of folds that almost concealed the opening at the front from hem to waist. It would not swing open unless I ran or moved carelessly. It belted tight beneath my breasts, and a long semicircular, pleated linen collar fastened around my neck, falling to the waist front and back. On that was placed a great jeweled collar set with malachite and turquoise, faience, and bits of ruby glass. It weighed tremendously. If I did not stand very straight it threatened to pull me over on my face, even with the counterweight attached at the back.

Iras fussed at every pleat, as she did for the Queen. I stood still.

Cleopatra circled me, her brows furrowed. When she saw my expression she smiled suddenly. “You do look very like me,” she said. “The stamp of the Ptolemies is fairly unmistakable.”

T
HE CEREMONIAL PROCESSION
wound its way out of the Palace Quarter, between parks and guesthouses, beneath wide arches and porticos, beneath the broad gate itself. On ordinary days, the Queen should be borne this way in a litter, but today we were all postulants of Isis. I walked shod in gilded sandals, surrounded by four of the most junior attendants on the Queen, who were in turn surrounded by Pharaoh’s guards. Always surrounded by guards. Ostensibly, they were to show his sister honor. Yet no matter how respectful their salutes, how gilded their ornament, I was under no illusion I was not a prisoner.

My steps were proud and slow, dignified as befitted the Queen of Egypt. Let them watch. Let all eyes be on me. Eyes that are upon me are not seeking elsewhere. If everyone knows where the Queen is, in the full view of all Alexandria, no one will wonder at the movements of two servants, slave girls who might go to the markets or about their mistress’ business on any day. No one would notice Iras and Cleopatra, leaving even now, their himations over their heads as they went to make their devotions at some smaller temple this feast day.

We passed through the shadow of the great gate. Its shade fell over me, cool and pleasant. Above, the first Ptolemy looked out from the wall, his carved face seeming somehow amused. Do you see what I do? I thought. Do you watch this game among your descendants? Do you dwell in paradise in the deathless western lands of Amenti, or are you born again, walking the streets of this city you built?

The procession turned into the Canopic Way. Wide enough for four carts to pass abreast, lined with fine buildings, the Canopic Way stretched straight as an arrow through the heart of the city, from the eastward gate almost to the city wall at the Inner Harbor. Past the Museum and the great Library, the Street of the Soma gave southward, to the Temples of Serapis and Isis, and the tomb of Alexander.

The glare was almost blinding. Those buildings that were not faced with white marble in the Greek style were built of light-colored stone in the Egyptian, some faced with gypsum to seem grander. The street was clad in pale sandstone, washed clean before dawn of the previous day’s filth. Each building along the processional way had been prepared as well, votive statues given a good scrubbing, and I noted with some amusement that the massive statue of Ptolemy Philadelphos that stood halfway along lacked his usual crown of lackadaisical seagulls. Normally, they kept a raucous commentary on the events in the streets below, swooping down to snatch up anything dropped that bore the slightest resemblance to food.

My eyes watered against the light, even shadowed as they were by kohl. The wig weighed a thousand talents. On my brow, the uraeus warmed in the sun.

Past the great sweeping colonnades at the front of the Library, the procession began its turn into the Street of the Soma. Ahead, between the steel-tipped spears of the escort, I could see the high dome that marked where Alexander lay in his sarcophagus of glass.

And then we passed into blessed shade, into the portico of the temple. Girls came forward with basins of clear water, holding them that we might bathe our hands before we stepped into the temple itself. One of the maidens assisted me, unfastening jeweled sandals and washing the dust of the city from my hennaed feet.

The inner courtyard was crowded, and likewise the temple itself, dark after the street outside. Resinous smoke billowed up from two great braziers before the altar, myrrh and frankincense and kephri, dark and fragrant as the night of Her search, touched with lotus and something more sweet beneath the scent of funerals.

One of the guards stumbled, momentarily blinded by the sudden darkness.

The Queen’s place was at the front, and the crowds parted as they should, our party passing through, stopping just before the right-hand brazier, the guards coming to rest with their gilded spear butts against the stone floor.

High up on the walls, the shadows shifted with the faint movements of flame in the braziers, old gods seeming to walk along the walls. Thoth inclined His head to the throne, where Isis sat beside Her husband. Ma’at suspended a feather and a heart. The Lord of the Dead stretched forth His hand. Silence filled the temple.

I inclined my head. I could hear my own heart pounding in my chest. The braids swung forward, half-hiding my bent face. Perhaps it looked like piety. Perhaps no one else was really paying attention. I closed my eyes and rested in the perfumed darkness. Even the faint sounds of the people about me faded away.

Mother Isis, I thought, the most impious of thoughts, let me get away with it!

Then in the darkness there was a voice, whether the voice of woman or boy I could not tell, high and pure as heaven’s arch. “If I do not bring you solace, then at least I bring you light. Hope is more precious than the brightest gold. If I do not bring you solace, then at least I bring you love. Hope is more precious than the brightest gold.”

The story was older than time, old as memory, and I had learned it as a child like everyone does, celebrated it each year. In that long ago night, the Widow wandered, Her husband slain and His body dismembered. Lost and alone, She wandered in the swamps of the Delta. Only the stars shone down on Her with pity.

“If I do not bring you solace, then at least I bring you light. Nothing is more precious than hope.” The voice soared, filling the temple with its bright solo, clear and strong as starlight. In the depths of the swamp, in the depths of despair, Isis sought the parts of Her husband’s body and quickened it, lay with Him for one night only. “Nothing is more precious than hope.”

And now the sistrums began, on the same note as the children’s choir, their voices pure and light. “If I do not bring you solace, then at least I bring you light!” I opened my eyes and I saw them singing as they’d been taught, their mouths opening and closing with the exaggeration of children who have been told to enunciate. “Hope is more precious than the brightest gold!”

In the darkness of Her despair, She gave birth to a son, infant Horus who would restore the world, whose bright eyes opened like the rising sun.

Through some marvel of engineering, fire ran down the long channels at the front of the temple, pouring like liquid into the vast bronze cressets, the entire front of the temple blazing forth suddenly with the brilliance of leaping flame.

“If I do not bring you peace, then at least I bring you love.” The men’s choir came in, their strong voices ringing, and behind them the deep drums like a heartbeat, old and fine.

The sun rose over the steaming swamps of the Delta, a Prince who should return to save His people, Horus, the Son of the Widow. In His bright ascension we are made whole, and life begins anew.

“For nothing is more precious than hope,” they sang, and my heart filled. I felt the uraeus warm on my brow, not a burden but a weight, as though it too quickened in the pulse of the flames.

Mother Isis, I thought, please help me do what is best for Egypt. Please help me do what is best for Your people.

I heard Her then, as if She kissed me softly on the brow.
They are all My people.

I closed my eyes, not against the darkness but against the light, long lashes sweeping my cheek for a moment.

The priest was coming down from the high altar with the oil in his hand, his shaven head slick. The children were singing, their sistrums shaking, each bronze disc glittering in the leaping light. I felt his hand on my forehead for a moment, rose and myrrh of the anointing oil. Of course the Queen should be the first, and the Hierophant himself should tend her.

“Thank you, Father,” I said.

“Peace be to you and yours, Cleopatra, Lover of Egypt,” he said.

B
Y THE TIME
I returned to the palace, it was almost evening. I changed back into my own clothes, being careful to remove every trace of the heavy makeup, and put the wig neatly on its stand. Cleopatra’s room was quiet and tidy, nothing out of place. I stood looking out the windows toward the harbor, waiting. I should have to do this before I fled, to set the time that Cleopatra left. I felt vaguely nauseous.

As soon as the sun set, I walked to the main doors and pushed them open, running past the guard outside toward Pharaoh’s rooms, calling out for Pothinus.

The guard caught me at the entrance to his chambers, grabbing me about the waist. “Here now,” he said, as I struggled feebly.

“I have to see Pothinus,” I said. “Please let me in. It’s very important.”

“You can’t just barge in there,” the guard said.

“It’s very important!” I sobbed. “I have to see Pothinus!”

In a moment he came out to me. I had never liked him, but he looked every inch the courtier, polished and well bred. “Is there a problem?” he asked mildly.

The guard let go of me.

I fell to my knees before his fine leather slippers. “Forgive me, oh gods! Let not your wrath fall on me!”

“What has happened?” There was a note of alarm in his voice now.

“The Queen is gone!” I gasped. “I helped her disrobe after the ceremony, and she sent me to fetch wine and food for her, and when I returned she was gone, she and Iras! Oh gods, they have left me to feel Pharaoh’s wrath!” I pressed my face against his toes.

“What?” Pothinus kicked me accidentally as he grabbed my elbows. “What?”

“The Queen is gone!” I sobbed. “Fled with Iras! Oh mercy upon me!”

“When?” I thought irreverently that Pothinus was being a bit slow on the uptake, as I had to keep repeating lines. “Tell me, girl!” He shook me.

“Just now I think,” I said. “I wasn’t gone long. Just long enough to go to the kitchens. And I put her wig on the stand and shook it out first. She wore the heavy wig for the ceremony, and it has to be blocked right away. It’s very expensive, you know.”

“Just now.” Pothinus looked about as though he expected Cleopatra to materialize from a shadow. “You, fetch the captain of the guard. Search the palace! The Queen must not be allowed to escape!” He dropped me and I collapsed to the floor, sobbing where I fell while over my head the guards ran about, mustering and giving orders. It seemed to go on forever. I hoped I was forgotten, and that no one would think to question me more closely until later.