by Jay Penner
What I do not see are the green eyes.
Someone hands me a cane, and I hobble. I walk past the gaudily painted walls, the ugly green pillars, and I search. Eventually, I get to the courtyard which is now empty—the dead bodies taken outside the compound walls, and the ground still wet with blood.
There is no one there.
“Eurydice?” I whisper weakly, ignoring the presence of my men and wife behind me. I then walk outside the compound to where we had left our horses. It is silent there; the horses look at us and then get back to chewing the grass.
Eurydice’s horse is gone.
I feel the soft longing spread through my body, under my skin, inside my chest. But I always knew, in spite of all my attempts, that Eurydice would never be the second woman.
When I turn, my wife looks at me. She is radiant, and her eyes know more than she lets. She leans forward and asks, “Who was she?”
I take a deep breath. I hold my wife's hands, and I tell her, “You are the angel for whom I have fought and lived, and she was the angel who brought me alive to you.”
We say nothing more, and I walk back holding her hand.
I am home.
KNIFE’S TIP, SOME TIME BEFORE
❅
Nekh-Aser wakes up in darkness. His face is in agony and his body hurts, but he feels relief that he is alive and can feel his hands and legs. But that cursed Deon has tied him up. The Egyptian knows he is strong and clever enough to break free. He wriggles his hands and pulls up his feet when he feels his knees hit a hard wall. He turns and tries again. His knees scrape stone on the other side too—he then raises his hands behind his head and feels another stone wall. He can also feel something softer with fabric cushioned between him and the stone wall on the right.
A slow fear begins to rise in Nekh-Aser’s chest.
Where am I?
He maneuvers into a sitting position and feels better. And then he tries to stand, but this time his head hits a stone roof.
Intense terror grips Nekh-Aser once he realizes that he is in a closed space. His muscles spasm and sweat breaks out all over. His breathing becomes rapid as he rises again and tries to push the lid up—but nothing moves. No man on earth is strong enough to move a stone lid that weighs as much as a half-grown elephant.
He tries until he is exhausted. He feels for other openings, but there are none. His breath is hot and turns laborious as his heart thunders like a court drummer.
Nekh-Aser begins to shake and collapses—his cheeks hit the object next to him. His hands try to examine what it is. It crumbles under pressure, and his fingers feel what appears to be a series of teeth.
The Egyptian begins to scream in his twisted mouth. The guttural sounds die in his throat. It dawns upon him that they have entombed him in a sarcophagus with the body of an ancient.
Darkness grips him like a vice.
His muscles contract and his chest feels like someone has placed a boulder on it. Tears stream from his face and soften the crusted blood on his destroyed jaw. He feels something run across his leg and bite into his thigh. He grabs whatever wretched creature it is and feels its bones crack under his grip; he throws it away in disgust, feeling its gooey after-matter and wet slickness in his palms.
He hugs himself and pulls his knees to his chest and breathes rapidly to calm himself—a technique some soldiers had taught him to assuage his terror of closed spaces. It takes a while, but he slowly regains his composure.
He thanks the gods—it is now time to work his way out methodically. He feels the grooves along the edge, and they end in what appears to be a latch. Nekh-Aser feels the ridges and senses a metallic track along the sides; it feels warm to touch. And that is when he hears the sounds—it's like the fluttering of wings in a room; like a gentle waterfall.
He wonders what it is.
The sounds grow in intensity and near him, and the softness gives way to cracks and a storm like rhythm.
He pushes his back to the stone wall, and it is very hot and singes him. He recoils from the pain, and soon feels that the air is beginning to warm. When he touches the stone above his head, it burns his palm, causing his skin to stick to its surface. Nekh-Aser screams through his bloodied lips and destroyed jaw, and by now his entire body is alive and pulsating with pain.
He begins to kick and flail and smashes his head on the stone walls.
The skin on his back begins to melt and peel and his exposed flesh sizzles against the heated stone.
His bowels lose control.
“No, father, no!” he cries.
But no gods listen to the wails of a man who had laughed at the despair of so many.
MEMPHIS, EGYPT
❅
Ptolemy wipes sweat off his brow. It is hot and the sun beats down upon him and the umbrella offers little succor. But he is proud. Things are going rather well for the satrap of Egypt. After Perdiccas’ foolhardy attempt no one has tried to invade Egypt, at least not until now.
Alexander’s tomb is coming along beautifully. It is within the palace complex of Memphis and the central temple is surrounded by statues of angels. That Alexander rests in Egypt is of anger to the King’s family, but Ptolemy knows that to have his body in his land lends great legitimacy to his rule. Ptolemy wants his dynasty to rule this land for a long time, and he has little interest in fighting with others or to expand his empire.
Egypt is glorious, rich, and he loves its customs and people.
Ptolemy has heard that Eumenes is somewhere in Asia, pursued by Antigonus. The tenacious little secretary has surprised Ptolemy. But his life or death is of no concern anymore.
There is trouble brewing in Greece and Macedon and Ptolemy knows he must watch the harbors of Alexandria and the entryway from Gaza for any invasions.
But today, the temple shines and he loves the beauty of god Alexander’s tomb. Ptolemy smiles and holds his mistress Berenice’s hand and dreams of a glorious rule ahead.
SOMEWHERE IN PERSIA
❅
Eumenes lies on the floor, hungry, and thirsty. His parched tongue sticks to the roof of the mouth. He wonders how it all came to this.
The entire world was against him, and yet he had prevailed.
The enemy had done unto him what he had to Neoptolemus years ago. They had attacked the baggage train and held the Argyraspides’ assets for ransom. In exchange, the traitorous officers had seized him and handed him over to Antigonus. What a shameful conduct! What gods would pardon men who handed their undefeated general to the hands of the enemy?
Antigonus had neither pardoned nor executed him—instead, he had confined Eumenes to a dungeon. But in the past three days, all supplies of water and food had stopped.
The door to the cell opens and in enters a tall, well-built soldier. He holds a cup and pours some water on Eumenes’ lips.
Eumenes asks him, “Why do you torture me so, Antigonus?”
The man mutters something. It sounds like he says he is not Antigonus. Eumenes is delirious. He continues, “My wife and children await me. It is time we end this rivalry.”
The man watches without expression.
“In return, I shall reveal to you a great secret—one that can make our duo greater than Alexander.”
The man inches towards Eumenes.
“My lieutenant, a man named Deon, should arrive any day now with news of the find. We can rule the world, Antigonus,” says Eumenes. Though weak and exhausted his clever eyes still burn with hope.
“There is a city that Poseidon himself—”
The man moves behind and slips a noose around Eumenes’ neck. Eumenes is too weak to struggle, and his knees collapse as the rope tightens.
His teeth cut into his swollen tongue. Before eternal darkness embraces him, Eumenes' mind plays the life gone by.
Alexander on a horse.
His wife pouring wine.
Craterus' head on his thigh.
Deon’s face as he rode away to Egypt.
Callisthenes o
n the podium as the executioner strangled the historian.
ONE YEAR LATER, MACEDON
❖
I walk back after the day’s teaching—my legend, some true, and some made up, has made me a favorite tutor for the children of the rich in the region. I also offer protection and debt collection services but do it with great tact and kindness where I can.
The gods watch every man’s deed, and they dispense justice as they see fit. I was the man that condemned his innocent family to years of fear and pain and forced them into a life they had not sought. After the short initial euphoria of return, the reality of our life, and my actions, hit us like divine bolts from the skies.
My daughter struggled to grow affection, and my wife never reconciled with what I had done, and what situation I had put them in. She was also unable to forget my affection to Eurydice, and that it had done nothing to dim the desire to return to her. Her family eventually found out the cause for their peril—that I had foolishly ventured into a partnership with Krokinos to open a “profitable brothel” to cater to the traders and the travelers. It is my eternal shame, knowing the brutal existence of those that toiled in these places, that I even attempted such a venture, my youth, and immaturity notwithstanding.
After much debate and recrimination, and then with calmer words and heavier hearts, we came to a decision, and Apollonia walked away with my daughter.
They returned to her parents, moderately wealthy producers of barley and olive. Four months ago, she married another man—a trader, and I have, from time to time, watched them all from afar. She seems happy, and I have no intention of trying to reclaim my space. My heart aches every day, but there is no one to soothe them.
I do dream of how a life of bliss would be with them.
Dreams where I mock fight with my wife about buying the finest drapery from the cheerful shopkeeper in Sidon, so I can stuff it in her mouth.
Dreams where we sit by the dwindling night fire and I regale them with stories of my battles.
Dreams where I feel their enveloping hugs and my wife caressing the scars of my past life, real and in the mind.
My daughter is growing to be the most beautiful young woman in Antigonus’ empire, and I dream that she will marry Antigonus’ son Demetrius. On that topic—Antigonus’ men finally found me but left me alone believing the story that I had been defrauded and sent on a quest for a lost will. I still recount in vivid detail every terrible act of violence I have inflicted and endured. The wounds of my past are still painful—the body heals from blows, but the mind is not so resilient. My loneliness reminds me of what I have lost.
I think of my wife and daughter every day, and my love for them shines as brightly as ever.
I think of Eurydice too. She was a magnificent mystery when she rode with me and remained a magnificent mystery as she vanished like she never existed, leaving an eternal longing in my heart.
Neither the woman I came back to or the one I fell in love with during the way, are with me. It is the justice of the heavens.
Atlantis is a distant memory but etched in my mind like a script on granite. I have often talked about returning; I have often wondered how it came to be; I have wondered what rediscovery may mean to the world. But I know to leave it be.
Antigonus, Ptolemy, Seleucus, and a host of other characters—they fight for a vast empire, and yet none has so far been successful in achieving unquestioned supremacy. There is no news that anyone has found the second Atlantis. We get scant news of what is happening elsewhere—I only know that Antigonus and Eumenes are still fighting and chasing each other, and I have never had the chance or desire to reconnect with Eumenes again. I often think of how he is.
I come to my modest and empty house where I usually rest on a little clay platform until it gets dark. I notice dust raised in the distance, and my heart palpitates. The road to my house is the only one nearby and the only way one sees rising dust if there is a column of soldiers or riders. And soon I see riders.
I mutter under my breath and scramble inside to bring out my kopis.
There is no point in running. Within minutes the armed contingent surrounds the house in an arc. The riders have their faces covered in colorful cloth, and they wear grand flowing robes—green, blue, purple. They do not look like Macedonians or Greeks. They are heavily armed, and the man in the front is tall, powerful, and adorned in Asian jewelry. It is hard to see much with all the dust swirling around me.
“Who are you?” I shout, with my body hunched and my kopis pointing at them. It is a meaningless gesture if they wish to harm me, but I must do what I can. The leader dismounts but keeps his distance. He is wearing an elegant attire—a flowing blue robe common among Persian royalty. He removes the scarf across his face and reveals his impressive beard. My eyes widen in recognition.
“Pharnabazus?” I exclaim, and his face breaks into a smile as he steps forward to embrace me. The same man—a Persian Satrap—that led Eumenes’ Asian cavalry against Craterus. My mind races.
“What brings you here?” I ask.
He looks behind, and another rider, shorter in stature, disembarks and comes forward. My eyes widen, and my heart skips a beat. Those piercing green eyes would belong to no one but—
“I wanted to thank you for bringing my daughter home,” he says. His proud and affectionate eyes turn to Eurydice.
“Your daughter?” My tongue fails me.
Eurydice was Pharnabazus’ daughter? I am shocked, angry, and relieved all at the same time. She hid the identity of her father all the time she was with me! Someday, I aim to know the true story of her life. But I am stunned at the revelation.
Pharnabazus grips my shoulders and his face conveys affection; he tells me sternly, “Someday you will know.”
Eurydice removes her scarf, and she is breathtakingly beautiful. Her face brims with pride and her wet eyes sparkle. But I also sense a hint of anxiety.
“I have told my father of your courage, leadership, and protection. We thank you for bringing me home, sir,” she says.
I smile weakly and nod. But I am relieved. She is alive. She is well. She steps forward and whispers under her breath as she bows to me, “He does not know.”
Her mischievous eyes twinkle, and I see that she still holds great affection for me, and that is enough.
I nod imperceptibly.
I see her look behind me, into my house, perhaps anticipating my family to emerge. Her eyes question the silence, and I say, “They left me.”
She says nothing and steps back.
“Why did you come all this way?” I ask Pharnabazus, for it is surely unusual to make such a journey only to thank me.
Pharnabazus’ deep voice cuts the air, “Deon, there is much to share. You are an impressive man, for one great man had you in his mind and the other has you now."
I am puzzled. Who does he speak of?
"First, let me speak of a great man who has you on his mind now. Governor Ptolemy inquires about you; he believes you have the skills to help him with a mission."
Ptolemy? Did he not want to murder me?
"I shall speak of that later. But there is one more thing,” he says, as he gestures an aide who brings me a beautifully handcrafted box.
On its lid is a symbol I have seen in the second Atlantis—three concentric circles with the symbol of a bull in the center. I say nothing, overwhelmed. The box is sealed with Eumenes’ wax imprint and bound by sacred strings. Pharnabazus gestures me to open it.
“Governor Eumenes ordered that only you receive it.”
I take the box from the aide and step away from everyone. Eurydice is curious; she leans forward, and Pharnabazus lays his palm on his daughter’s head.
I cut the thread and break open the seal. Inside is a letter written in haste. It is for me but not addressed as such.
May this find you in health and happiness. The gods appear to have ordained that our quest remain unfulfilled. I have something else for you, and may you forgive me for not shar
ing this sooner. On my capture or death, I have instructed P. to find and give you a sheaf of engraved gold leaves. You will feel immense pleasure in reading them, of that I am certain, and find answers to many questions. In return, I command you to tell the fate of Eurydice to her father. My great affection for you remains, and I will embrace you in the afterlife. We will conquer the heavens.
I sit in shock. My legs are weak. I have often thought of Eumenes—a clever, brave, and subtly dangerous man who I admired more than anyone else in Alexander’s circle. I wonder if my decision not to go back to him as wise. But it is too late now.
Pharnabazus watches from afar. The dust has settled. Cool wind brushes the nape of my neck, and I feel a sense of anticipation. With Eurydice looking over my shoulder, I pick up the first gold leaf and begin to read.
In this with the blessing of the divine I speak the story of an empire that incurred the fiery wrath of god…
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An exciting, fast-paced thriller set in Pharaonic times.
Ambition. Greed. Desire. Love. Deceit. Wrath.
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