by LYDIA STORM
Octavian Augustus stood surveying his city from his chariot––now the greatest city in the world. All of history would remember this moment. His heart swelled with pride as the crowd actually cheered him, drunk on the wine he had bribed them with and the circus he put on for their benefit. He stared down at them. They were children to be manipulated by his slightest whims, he thought, and suddenly he had such contempt for the dirty smelling rabble that cheered for his glory, he was seized with revulsion and a fierce desire to get away. Snapping his reins sharply, he sent the matched pair of white stallions springing forward, carrying him to the Palatine Hill and the solitude of his small spare chamber.
But the Triumph was not over yet.
The final act in Octavian’s show was an effigy of his vanquished enemy, Cleopatra, hewn by the most talented artisans Alexandria could provide. Perhaps he could not drag her in chains behind his chariot as he wished, but he would show the world her corpse. Or, at least, a likeness of it, to remind them what happened to those who dared challenge him.
A rough-hewn cart slowly made its way into the Field of Mars carrying the statue of the Egyptian Queen’s body. She was dressed in none of her lavish robes. No burning rubies or lustrous pearls adorned her. She wore only a gray sheath and on her left arm the likeness of a serpent coiled around her elbow. Unadorned by any trappings of luxury or power, the simple truth of her likeness left only the fascination of her beauty to behold.
Rome went silent.
The people craned their necks and stood on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of her likeness. In the hush, some magic swept through the air; the Field of Mars fairly buzzed with it and, at last, one woman cried out, “Isis!”
For a moment the sweet perfume of roses wafted in the breeze which had sprung up to cool the burning air, and the inanimate form of Cleopatra seemed to breathe with the living spirit of the Goddess. The people cast their eyes down; afraid to look upon the deity their master dared to defy. Some even sank to their knees and whispered soft prayers as she passed by.
Behind the jostling crowd, a woman heavily cloaked despite the August sun stood whispering her own prayer. “Lady protect your children. Lady protect your children. Lady protect your children….”
She quietly repeated her mantra over and over as she watched the likeness of Cleopatra disappear down the Via Sacra. In her hands, she held the palms of two silent children, their dark blue eyes solemn and old beyond their years.
A servant pulled open the curtain of a modestly fitted litter and touched her mistress’s shoulder. Octavia nodded.
“Come Alexander. Come Selene,” whispered Octavia, gently lifting the children and placing them in the waiting litter. “It’s time for us to go.”
She climbed in next to the twins and pulled the curtain shut. Little Selene crawled into her lap and unconsciously toyed with the outline of the plain copper locket hanging hidden beneath her robe. Unnoticed by the crowds, four strong servants hoisted the litter up and carried it away from the Field of Mars, never realizing that they bore two tiny beings in whose hearts and minds dwelt the eternal wealth of Egypt.
EPILOGUE
The swirl of stardust and softly glimmering light shimmered around her, the distant call of the Song beckoning to her to merge with it, to lose herself and all she had been. The magnetic pull of the universe tugged, loosening her ka, gently leading her away….
But something primal at her core was unwilling.
She tried to think. There was some reason why…the force inside her resisted harder, and by her will, the Song broke away, shattered in a thousand fragments of lilting chords of light and disintegrated from her sight, leaving her disoriented in a gray landscape of softly swirling mists.
She looked around in confusion. There was nothing but the damp, chill fog.
Tentatively, she took a step. Her feet sank slightly in the Nile mud and the ghostly shapes of the reeds rose like rustling shadows in the cloudy mists.
The soft sound of a paddle hitting the water rhythmically rose up from the river, and the mists parted as Lord Anubis, the guide between the worlds, appeared rowing his narrow boat. He looked at her solemnly, his jackal head bowed.
Her heart began to race. Something was terribly wrong! Panic welled up inside as she searched the landscape wildly with her eyes. There was nothing but the muddy swampland and shifting mists.
“My lady,” said the Jackal in his deep mournful voice, “the time has come to journey to the Land of the Pharaohs.”
She looked up at his outstretched hand waiting to help her board the small boat.
“No!”
She turned to run, but then she saw a dark shape hidden by the dense fog.
She staggered forward through the mucky swampland, her skirts tangling in the reeds, the water soaking her tunic so that it clung wet around her like a constricting web. She was in such terror of losing that shape in the treacherous mists. If she did, she might lose it, and herself, forever!
She wracked her brain, but could not remember what it was she searched for. Only that this dark shape shrouded by the twilight fog was all that mattered.
She stumbled through the swamp until the mists thinned out and she could see the figure was that of a man.
She called out to him.
She felt him turn towards her, though his face was still shrouded in gray swirling vapors.
He was standing on the shore by the side of the river. She could see that now. She scrambled up the slippery mud, but a bank of fog rolled in so thick everything was obscured. She spun around disoriented and saw only thick floating clouds of gray all around.
This cannot be! she thought, wildly stumbling forward through the billows of fog. Where had he gone? She had lost him! Lost everything!
She stopped in her tracks as a terrifying realization came to her, chilling her more profoundly than the damp mists ever could.
She was lost in the Land Of The Reeds.
Lost to wander, as all doomed souls were. She had turned away from The Guide to chase a phantom and now she would never find her way back.
She began to shake, deep from within, as her knees gave way and she sank onto the muddy shore. With all the panic of an abandoned child, every fear that had ever haunted her, that she had kept locked inside her for a lifetime, swooped through her naked spirit now like the desert vultures come to eat away the final remains. The mists grew colder and darker, and with a scream of terror, she hid her face in muddy hands.
But now, through the piercing sound of her own cries, she became aware of a voice muffled by the heavy mists. She looked up trying to hear what it said.
The voice sounded lost and confused, but there was no fear in it. It was saying something she knew she should recognize.
What was it?
She stood up against the resistance of the muddy robes weighing her down. She stood listening intently.
There was nothing.
Hopelessly, she tried to recognize anything at all in the thick wall of fog which surrounded her, when she heard the voice speaking quietly in her ear. It was a dear beloved voice, full of warmth. It had spoken a name. Her dazed mind struggled to make sense of it. The name was so familiar and rang through her like a bell, waking her bewitched senses, casting off the deep fog of confusion.
“Cleopatra.”
She turned towards the speaker. A strong warm hand took hers, steadying her in the slick mud.
“I did not forget.”
She leaned in closer, and through the clouds of chill air, could just make out the planes of Antony’s beloved face.
As the wisps of fog began to clear, Cleopatra looked up into his eyes which shone with a light so radiant she saw the chords of the Song twinkling there.
There was no telling how long they stood with each other. Time shifted as strangely as the mists in the Land of the Reeds. But when they were ready, as if responding to a silent call, the boat of Anubis slid along the shore and The Guide wordlessly held out his hand to help them aboard.
She gazed into Antony’s wise eyes and realized she was no longer his High Priestess or teacher. They would experience the Mystery of Resurrection together.
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, then pulling her close, wrapped his arm around her waist, as like a veil between the worlds, the mists fell heavy behind them and their boat made its way down the shimmering water, disappearing from the Land of Reeds, leaving only the silver wisps of fog and silent mystery of the twilight river behind.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lydia Storm was raised in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village and went on to receive her Bachelor of Arts from Vassar College in Film. Currently, she resides with her family in upstate New York.
Lydia's work has been published in various magazines, including a monthly column in Gotham and a daily column online in Cosmogirl. Her screenplays have been produced by New Line Cinema and 20th Century Fox.
Her debut romantic suspense novel, Moonlight on Diamonds, is a Romance Writers of America’s “Heart of the West” finalist.
Visit Lydia at: www.lydiastorm.com
