Children of Tiber and Nile

by Deborah Davitt

  Caesarion gave her a look as the others cleared out of the tent for the moment. “Do I want to know what you have in mind?” he asked.

  She considered it carefully. “I’m going to do my best to frighten the high priest of Thoth and all his adherents into complete obedience,” Eurydice told her husband. “And this is how.”

  When she finished her explanation, Caesarion had to sit down for a moment or two to digest it. Shook his head. And then told her, “Yes. That might just do it.” His crimson eyes held concern, however. “You’re going to have to act as if you’re completely in control, beloved.”

  “I know.” She nodded. “Act as if you’re in charge, and half the time, people will believe it. And at the moment, we need them to believe it. More than they believe anything else.”

  ______________

  Padubast, the High Priest of Thoth, had just passed his sixty-fifth birthday. He thought it possible that he might see his sixty-sixth, but that really was in the hands of the gods. He could feel death inside of him, reaching its cold fingers from his heart to every extremity. Clenching its fist around his heart and lungs, making it difficult to breathe, and forcing him to bring up blood when he coughed, now and again. Thus, he was carried to the camp of the Roman Emperor—the pharaoh—on a bier, by six of his attendants, while three other, lesser priests of the temple, rode small donkeys behind his litter. Another attendant walked alongside his litter, handing the high priest fresh cloths into which he could spit when he had need, or clusters of aniseed on which to chew, to make his breath a little sweeter.

  Twenty feet ahead of him, entering the hastily-erected gate of the camp already, he could see the nomarch of Thebes on his own litter. Nomarch Sebichos was a tall, thin man by Egyptian standards; his position was hereditary, and his ancestors had intermarried frequently with Nubian and Kushite royalty to strengthen bonds with the kingdoms to the south of Egypt. Hence, his skin was darker than Padubast’s own, contrasting with the pure white of his shendyt kilt and the crisp white linen that covered his head and neck at the moment. As regional royalty, Sebichos was entitled to, and wore, a leopard skin cape over his shoulders, in addition to heavy gold jewelry. Politically astute, Sebichos was certain to blow whichever way the wind was strongest—and Padubast could see him suddenly lurch upright on his bier, staring at something just past the gate. Unusual. I suppose I’ll see whatever it is, in a moment.

  And as his own bier moved through the gate now, Padubast sat up himself, anger and sorrow coursing through him in equal measures. For just past the gate, on seven spears driven butt-first into the ground, were seven heads, severed at the neck. They’d been crudely preserved, probably in salt. And Padubast recognized all seven faces, battered though the visages were, with their mouths hanging agape and their eyes missing, pecked out by the crows and other birds that still hovered nearby, looking for a quick meal.

  His stomach churned, and he sat back in his litter, coughing once more into a fresh piece of linen. What do I tell my pharaoh? That we met in the last part of the dying year, and my brethren voted against rebellion, seven to four. And the four who voted for rebellion vanished, along with three lesser priests, a week later—after the tax-collectors went missing. That I suspected their involvement in the whole sorry mess, but could do nothing more than support my people against the heavy hands of armed troops, who started a massacre in the city streets?

  The tent at the center of the camp hardly looked grand enough to be the pavilion of a pharaoh. It should have occupied most of an acre, and have been constructed of light, translucent linen to admit the breeze. There should have been slaves on hand to wash the feet of the guests, offer them wine and honeyed dates, and stir the otherwise unmoving air with palm fronds. Instead, this tent seemed to be made of heavy wool, like the tents of the desert nomads. A few servants were on hand to open the flap for them, and Padubast shakily took one of his attendant’s arms, grateful for the support as he made his way into the depths of the structure.

  Inside, there were servants, yes, pouring wine and water into cups around a table. At the head of that table, an eagle, a living one, trod back and forth over a tall wooden perch. Not chained there, nor caged, it seemed restless and huge. All of the guests eyed the predator warily, and most elected to sit well away from a creature that could, on a whim, attack and destroy their eyes and faces.

  Padubast, for his part, took a seat gratefully, as did his lower-ranked priests, but he waved the cup away. “I have not managed to live so long by drinking water,” he wheezed in Hellene, which he spoke fluently.

  “I’ve given orders for all my men to boil their water before drinking it, and then to pass it through a Hippocrates’ sleeve to remove any further impurities. That should take care of whatever in the Nile is causing so many of them to piss blood,” a deep voice said from behind him in Latin, and Padubast turned, his eyes widening. And then tried to rise so that he could kneel respectfully, but again, he required aid.

  The pharaoh—for surely, this young man was he!—was as tall as any Nubian Padubast had ever met, at least seven large spans in height, but lacked the whipcord frames of those who dwelled in the southern regions. Instead, he was broad across neck, chest, and shoulders, with his arms in proportion, all of which were bare at the moment, for he’d chosen to wear a shendyt as if born to it, instead of a Roman tunic and toga. His hair was dark and slightly curly, though very short, and utterly exposed, for he’d eschewed crown and head-covering entirely. No jewelry, beyond a heavy gold ring on one finger. And not sandals, but Roman boots, shod with iron nails. And while his eyes lacked any kohl, they were red. The same red as drying blood. And they carried with them a world of authority, and a certain icy irritation, too. This is not a good man to annoy, Padubast thought tiredly. The last several generations of Ptolemies were fat and quarrelsome, but fearful to behold when enraged. Plump and stupid, they still razed Thebes almost to the ground. What will this one do? “My lord,” Padubast wheezed in Egyptian, slowly lowering himself to the ground, even as those around him did.

  The young man held out his hand, and a woman emerged from the depths of the tent, with its thick smell of wet animal. And she, too, somehow outshone her surroundings. Their faces held the unmistakable signs of the same heredity. Roman noses, high Etruscan cheekbones, and the same determined jaw, more prominent on him than on her. Her skin had seen less of the sun, being paler, and her eyes were the same gold as the eagle on its perch. While she wore no wig, she did wear the golden crown of a queen, with the hawk of Horus spreading its wings alongside her ears, and a necklace of a dozen huge amethysts, each carved with the image of a different god, wrapped around her throat, above a pure white kalasiris. Deceptive in its simplicity, the dress skimmed her curves. A kalasiris was tight for a reason—it showed all of a woman’s fecundity. And in this case, it quietly flared over a waist slightly thicker than it might have been. Stating, subtly, but unmistakably, that the queen was with child. With all the power that a pregnant woman had, of potential, mystery, and connection to realms inaccessible to men.

  Never changing expression from the regal calm and distance with which she had entered, the queen took her husband-brother’s hand, and allowed him to escort her to the head of the table, where a servant placed a basket of raw flesh. And now, seeming not to care that the flesh would dirty her fingers with blood, she began to offer gobbets of it to the eagle, which hopped down from its perch to land on her shoulder. Accepting the morsels from her delicate, bare fingers as gently as a child.

  Padubast swallowed, but the nomarch of Thebes fortunately took the lead in conversation, immediately and obsequiously stating, “My pharaoh, my agents have been unable to find the missing Roman tax-collectors. But they have been much delayed in their search by the events that have transpired since they began looking—“

  “We are aware of what’s happened since the men went missing,” the pharaoh said sternly. “Full-scale riots, resulting in the deaths of hundreds of people. Followed by attacks on
this castra and patrols sent out from it. This ends today, gentlemen.”

  The nomarch spread his hands placatingly. “My lord, many times in ages past, this province or that has shown signs of unrest. Your ancestors often chose to forgive, and thus ensured that trade from the south and east would not be interrupted. I hope that you will embrace this wise policy.”

  The young pharaoh looked at his queen. And she was the one who responded now, calmly. Distantly, “My beloved husband and I are united in our desire for the prosperity of Egypt, nomarch, because the prosperity of one province contributes to the prosperity of the entire empire. But there is one thing that must be had in an empire of this size—an empire that covers over six times as much land as Egypt does, alone.” She fed another gobbet to the eagle, and went on, after a pause, “There must be order, Lord Sebichos. There must be the rule of law. Taxes must be paid—and we understand that the grain harvest was poor this year. And since the tax is a percentage of each farmer and land-owner’s yields, this means that the tax burden on each individual was less this year, than in years past. Perhaps this was not communicated properly to the peasantry. We will rely on you to make this clear to them, and to your fellow nobles as well.” Unspoken in that calm-voiced statement was an underlying threat: We suspect that you deliberately did not communicate this to people in this region, so as to stir up unrest and anti-Roman sentiment.

  The pharaoh added now, his voice cold, “And we will send scribes and other officials from Alexandria to finish the tax collection, and examine the records kept by you, and all other nobles of this region. It would be distressing, if there were discrepancies between the amount reported collected by the peasantry, and the amount turned in to the coffers of the state.”

  Padubast translated, You may have an underlying reason not to have found the tax-collectors rapidly, Nomarch. You might have been collecting the same amount as last year’s taxes from your direct subjects, and passing along only the amount demanded this year. Lining your coffers with the difference, while claiming to the populace that it was all the fault of greedy Rome.

  Sebichos lifted his chin. “Your inspectors will find that my records are in order.”

  “We certainly hope that this is the case. Because if any noble’s records are found to have serious discrepancies, we will give them to your own peasants, and allow them to look for their missing coin and grain inside the coffer of the noble’s own flesh,” the young queen said, tilting her head to the side, just as the eagle did the same thing. An avian, alien look. Not interested on a human level but . . . calculating. Assessing. “In the meantime, we will render assistance to the citizens of Thebes, and the engineers of the two legions encamped here will begin removing rubble and marking the ground for the building of new homes and shops. This will be a glorious chance to improve Thebes by straightening what looks to have been a maze of crooked streets. Perhaps even a chance to build, if not sewers, then at least lavatory pits. Better, I think, than simply letting all the filth wash into the Nile.”

  The nomarch choked. “Where is the coin for these improvements to come from, my lady?” he asked.

  “I can’t help but notice that the cost of grain has gone up staggeringly,” she returned, her expression still remote. “The largest land-owners in Egypt have become even wealthier in the past year, while paying that reduced tax rate. I was rather hoping that, being civic-minded men, well aware of the needs of society, that some of you might be prevailed upon to donate some of the funds. I will, personally, donate half a talent of silver to help the reconstruction effort along.” Her expression shifted, minutely. “After which, my lord Sebichos, there will be no more unrest in Thebes.”

  It wasn’t a question. It was a direct order. The nomarch threw up his hands in exasperation. “I do not control the hearts and minds of the entire populace!” He looked at Padubast in frustration. “The priests will need to speak out, if you wish the current situation to . . . abate.”

  “I have spoken,” Padubast wheezed. “On several occasions.”

  The queen placed one red-daubed finger to her lips, and then asked a question that froze Padubast’s already slow-moving blood in his veins. “Tell me, respected high priest of Thoth, how many of your brethren here today have been initiated into the mystery of the Seven Gods?”

  Padubast went rigid. Then coughed into a square of linen to give himself time to think, as two of his three underpriests murmured to each other in bafflement, and Sebichos turned to look at him in puzzlement. “My lady,” Padubast said, at length, “I take it from your words, that you have been.”

  A very slight inclination of her head. The high priest sighed. “Leave us,” he ordered the two most junior priests, but gesturing for Riei, the second-most senior priest in his order, to remain. “I would take it . . . as a courtesy . . . if Lord Sebichos were to leave us, as well.”

  “Go,” the pharaoh ordered the nomarch, and Sebichos left, turning to peer behind himself with evident curiosity. Every servant left now, as well, dismissed with quick, sharp words in Latin.

  And when they were all safely out of earshot, the young queen offered her eagle another piece of meat from the bowl, and said, softly, “Ah. So the two of you know the great secret.”

  Padubast did his best to sit upright without coughing. “I’m surprised that you do, my lady.” He paused. Of course, she could just know the words, but not the meaning behind them. I’ll give her no confirmation. “What is the reason for your inquiry?” he asked, feeling another wheeze coming on. “How does this relate to the question of . . . tempering the rebellion? I have spoken against it. Repeatedly.”

  “And yet, as you saw on your way into our camp, seven priests came to Alexandria and attempted to kill my wife,” the pharaoh said evenly. “They stole the grimoire of a Magus—the one you surely saw outside our tent—and summoned a demon whose Name hasn’t been spoken in over two thousand years in an effort to murder her, me, and as much of the line of Ptolemy as they could.”

  Padubast closed his eyes, wanting to rail at the stupidity of Tahut-Nefer and the rest of his associates. “We did not know where they had gone,” he managed after a moment. “Tahut and three others of my higher-ranking priests spoke against you in conclave a few months ago, but the rest of our brethren denounced them.” Denounced was a strong word. Voted against and then politely ignored was probably more accurate, but he needed to convince this pair not to execute him and the rest of his priesthood. “Then they vanished, along with several younger priests. Three of whom adorned your spears, yes.” He swallowed.

  “You must exert more control over your brotherhood,” the queen said quietly. “And this is why. If you do not bring them in line, and if the rest of the temples of the Seven Gods—Aten, Amun-Ra, Isis, Thoth, Sekhmet, Horus, and Set—do not back our rule, to the hilt? Then my brother-husband has given me leave to dissolve all of the temples of the dead gods. There are literally thousands of temples that would be affected, from those of Anouke to those of Tawaret. I will evict every one of these false priests from their temples. Confiscate all treasures belonging to them, and all their lands. Put their coin in the coffers of the state, put their artifacts into the collections of the pharaoh.”

  Padubast stopped breathing. “You can’t do that, my lady,” he protested. “The economic disruption alone would take hundreds of years to abate.” He gasped for breath, foreseeing consequences that he doubted the young woman before him could envision. “The temples, even of the dead gods . . . do much good. Almost . . . all artistry . . . sponsored by them. All . . . dance and music . . . taught by priestesses of Bastet . . . .” He wheezed. “Almost all physicians . . . train in the temples of Ptah. Thousands of scribes, all employed by temples. Thousands of craftsmen . . . employed to keep up the temples. Provide food. Whole economy . . . hinges on them.”

  Beside him, Riei shook his head. “And concentrating so much power into the seven priesthoods—no pharaoh has ever done that. It would be your undoing, and it wouldn’t serve any e
nds—“

  She smiled, and Padubast quailed inwardly at the expression, so cold and confident. “Oh, undeniably, it would give great power to the priests of the seven living gods, yes. But there’s a reason you yourselves have never announced the truth to the people of Egypt. After all, what happens if you do? I’m sure that most of the priests of Bastet and Ptah and the rest don’t know that their prayers are directed at dead, deaf ears. They might be rightly irritated at having lived a lie. They might decide to take that anger out on, say, the priests of gods that still exist. The ones who’ve lied to them, and had real power all along.” She leaned her head against her knuckles now, propping her elbow on the arm of her chair. “And the commoners! If someone were to tell them that they’ve been lied to for over a thousand years, they might rise up and kill all the priests who’ve been doing the lying. Both the ones who’ve been representing the dead gods, and the living ones. And goodness only knows what they’ll do then. Why, they might decide that if gods can die, they might not need gods at all.”

  Padubast’s mouth had gone completely dry. “You . . . you are god-born of Isis,” he managed, swallowing. “Do you say these things . . . is this her will?”

  “She speaks to me in dreams and in portents, and expects me to derive my own interpretations and make my own decisions. She does not lead me by the hand, or drive me along like a brainless sheep towards a stream.” The queen’s eyes were hooded now. “I look at Egypt, my lord priests, and I see a land that has achieved greatness, but has stagnated, too. It’s locked in a dream of its own magnificence, little realizing that the world has begun to pass it by. To my way of thinking? Gradually eliminating the cults of the dead gods, over the course of centuries, would be greatly in the interest of the seven living gods. And their temples.” She stared at the two men, unblinking. “But to do that, rather than simply making the announcement and letting the common people rip you apart with their hands and teeth, and then marching in the legions to impose order once every priest in Egypt is dead?” She paused, and then gave them a sweet, empty smile. “That is a policy decision I will find it easier to make, knowing that I, my brother-husband, and Rome, have your unconditional support.”