Steampunk Cleopatra

by Thaddeus Thomas

  Amani stood inside the door where Theodotus had left her after saying only that she was to be tested. Inside the room, Moira lay on an ornate, backless couch. The tip of each arm gripped the floor behind her as if a skeletal hand were dragging the old woman to her grave. She eyed the tray of food at the table. An arm swung over, like a great reed caught in the wind. It skewered three grapes, one at a time, and she ate. When she had swallowed the last of the three, the arm swung back into place and remained motionless. Her chest rose and fell.

  “Ma'am,” Amani asked, “are you okay?”

  “I remember you.”

  The room occupied the second floor of the harbor-side palace, and its windows commanded what would have been a spectacular view; except every shutter was latched shut. Pipe-fed gas lamps were dark. On the table next to the food, a single oil lamp burned.

  “Theodotus implied you would test my worthiness,” Amani said.

  “What would you have us change for your people?”

  Amani inched forward, making sure the light of the lamp caught her face. “The working conditions are not safe.”

  “The factories,” Moira said.

  “The pay is not enough to compensate for the damages done to the fishing trade. The people are trapped without recourse, and the quality of life in the Egyptian quarter has suffered while things continue largely as before here. Meanwhile, the benefits of all this are apparent nowhere but in the palace, where the government enjoys gaslight.”

  “We've done much more in the palace than install lighting.”

  “You asked me what I would want changed,” Amani said.

  “And still you have not answered.”

  “But--”

  “You shared your complaints, not what you would change.”

  Amani stopped. Surprised. Confused.

  Moira made no effort to explain.

  “The people need to work shorter hours and have more time off,” Amani said. “The injured need to be cared for and recompensed for their inability to work. Pharaoh destroyed the park. They need areas of rest and beauty, and they need air they can breathe.”

  Moira's veins were dark beneath her pale, olive skin. “Rome left a finance officer to collect Ptolemy's debt. Within a year, that man had to be secreted out of the country, or the people would have killed him. There's little left to give but the land and its people, and Rome will still come.”

  “Why did you ask me about my people?”

  “Our current situation requires a choice,” Moira said, “between their discomfort and their destruction.”

  Destruction would come to those in power. It would matter little to her people whether they were ruled by Greece or by Rome.

  “You’re caught between Scylla and Charybdis,” Moira continued. “I blame your tutor, always fixated on Plato, when Aristotle--tutor to the king--should be our patron. Why burn down Dio’s house and post a history of Rhakotis or as complete a history as we would allow?”

  “Grief,” Amani said.

  “Grief,” Moira said. “Grief is ineffable, and so Philostratos engages in symbolism. Enough grief. Enough clinging to things to which no man can point. Life is found in the tangible moment. Grief focuses on empty space. Life is a surface pressed to your flesh. Life has meaning.”

  Moira closed her eyes and took in a shuddering breath. “This city was my always goal. Yet, I come, and I cannot bear to walk in her streets. I’ve closed myself away and made these rooms my Cyprus because I’ve never learned to be somewhere. I know only how to dream of what I cannot touch, and you are too much like me, my child, too much like Philostratos. Don’t make my mistake. Learn to live in the city as it is. Pharaoh must be able to trust you.”

  “How can Pharaoh trust me if I would turn my back on my people?” Amani asked.

  “Your family is here. I don’t mean the flesh and blood you hardly know. Philostratos and Cleopatra are your family if you will still have them.” Moira rose off the couch, her body dangling from the metal arms, her chin held high under her own strength. “I have a secret.”

  She moved into the next room. A moment later, Urban, bald and thin, stepped through the same door, and he opened his arms to receive Amani’s embrace.

  In Moira's workshop, Amani witnessed the debris of a dozen projects. Measured and detailed drawings decorated the walls.

  Urban led her into a room lined with shelves and stacked with baskets, Moira’s unofficial library annex. In the final room, Amani found a nook where one could rest and read by a window. There was a desk and chair, shelves and chests for personal belongings, and a bed.

  “You and Moira?” Amani asked.

  “It may be cliché to suggest one's lover is your entire world, but in this case, it is accurate. Beyond Philostratos, no one even remembers I exist, and I'm not ready to let her go.”

  “She's ill?”

  He nodded.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “I'll offer my advice if you'll hear me.”

  She gripped his hands in hers. “Of course. We are old friends, you and I.”

  “There's nothing you can do to relieve the present burden on your people, but more factories will only compound those hardships. You have one chance to be heard if you wish to make an argument against the factories. Cleopatra has championed the project, and as much as she once loved you, she won't turn away from it now.”

  She embraced Urban, and where there had once been muscle, she squeezed him to the bone. “Tell me what I must do.”

  Papyrus 6.02

  In temples throughout Egypt, priests made special offerings, and, in the palace, busy people paused. The moon draped the sun and covered all but a thin, fiery ring. The sky dimmed, creating a welcome to Lochias that took Amani's breath. Lit against the red, moon-darkened sky, Lochias outmatched the island palace in almost every way but one. The island was better suited for a family. That had once mattered to Ptolemy.

  North of the amphitheater, with covered access to it, stood Lochias's gilded entrance. Golden ivy covered its broad arch, which had lost little of its impact, even though so much had been stripped away. Amani had never entered Lochias, but outside the gate, she noted the bare spots where Rome had taken statues to pay Ptolemy's debt.

  Theodotus approached, and the guards opened the gates.

  The guards’ uniforms were Alexandrian, but the guards at the gate and all those inside were Gabiniani, every single one. Amani expected to pass through, but a centurion stepped out. He was not Alexandrian, nor was he a Gaul like his men. Amani saw it clearly, like blood on a white tunic. He was Roman, and he wore metal armor fit together with gears and pistons and surrounded by an ever-evaporating mist.

  The gates closed.

  “Salvius,” Theodotus said.

  “Lucius Septimus wanted to be here himself,” Salvius said.

  Theodotus whispered in Amani's ear. “The military tribunal over the Gabiniani.”

  “But you kept him waiting,” Salvius continued.

  Amani didn't respond at first, because she saw nothing that deserved a response. After a while, though, she realized the silence was waiting on her. “I go where they tell me.”

  “She had to be cleared,” Thaddeus said.

  Salvius nodded. “Lucius doesn't expect to be kept waiting.”

  Theodotus shifted his weight. Amani could tell he wanted to say something, but even if it were true he would be a minister over Egypt one day, it hadn't happened, yet.

  “You will stand before the palace,” Salvius said, “but you will not enter. Pharaoh may want to show you a few of his machines, but whatever you see and whatever you feel, know they are not just toys. The palace is a death trap. You will either do as you're instructed or be impaled upon its wonders. Do you understand?”

  “Impaled upon its wonders,” Amani said.

  Salvius nodded to the others, who now looked naked in their tunics and leather armor. The gate opened. In the heavens, sunlight broke free as the sun and the moon edged out of alignment.

/>   Amani and the others passed through a colonnade, but she ignored its extravagance and focused on the many leather-armored soldiers just outside its shade, filed between the columns and the palace buildings beyond. The colonnade ended at a drop-off, with the pharaoh's residential palace below. It sat atop a subtle slope that passed through gardens to a beach and the harbor. A rampart rose out of the water and guards stood atop it.

  Beyond the residence, another wall retained an elevated plateau and more buildings, more men, and more weapons. Amani had expected bows, arrows ready to fire down upon any intruder, but although the men carried their devices in a manner that required they be weapons, they were unlike anything Amani had ever seen.

  The residence, by comparison, looked lonesome and unguarded.

  “From here, you go alone,” Salvius said. “Please, be mindful of your behavior.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Theodotus answered. “Don't let them think you're a threat.”

  Amani walked down the winding stairway to the large patio between the residence and the gardens. The front of the palace was open to the cool air that wafted in from the water. For a moment, she could not comprehend what she saw.

  The architecture and decor were reminiscent of the island. She had expected more guards, but saw none. Meaningless metallic forms stretched from the ceiling, and Pharaoh sat in a large, cushioned chair, staring out at the water.

  A marble bust of Pharaoh sat on a pedestal just outside the gardens. This statue, Rome allowed him to keep. The bust looked into the palace. Pharaoh looked out, and they seemed to stare at one another. The bust was young and athletic, a version of the pharaoh unlike anything Amani had seen in life. The pharaoh she had known was large, but the man sitting before her was bone thin. His skin hung from him as if it were a sheet, except his neck, which remained swollen.

  His eyes moved off the bust to look at her. “I wish I could play you a tune, but those days are behind me.”

  She bowed, offering the respect his position required.

  “When I heard you had come,” he said, “I doubted the reports. It may look like Amani, I thought. She may claim to be Amani, but this will not be her. Now that I see you, there is no doubt.”

  “It's been a long time.”

  “I wanted to see you right away,” he said, “but those who keep me alive insisted on the interviews. The men thought they could do it, but I can only imagine what that would have looked like. You're smarter than any ten of them.”

  “Pharaoh is kind,” she said.

  “You should have told me about the books,” he said. “I should be angrier with you, but I attempted to kill you, so maybe there is some balance there. Is there balance, Amani, or have you come seeking revenge?”

  “I wanted to come back sooner,” she said, “but I waited because I did not know what I'd do when I got here. I waited until I had certainty, and it took me this long because revenge is not my desire.”

  “And how will you occupy yourself?”

  “I mean to study the books and be of service to Pharaoh.”

  He rose from his chair. “So, you've returned to be of service?”

  “And, perhaps, convince you not to build more factories.”

  Somewhere, steam released in rhythmic bursts. The metal frames moved, and an arm reached out for Pharaoh.

  The moon left the sun. Light flooded down upon them as a metal arm pierced the back of Ptolemy's neck. His body twitched and went limp. Amani thought him dead. The guards looked down at her, their weapons drawn, and she held herself motionless, her hands clasped below her navel.

  Pharaoh's eyes opened. Wall lamps roared to life.

  Serpentine arms emerged from within the garden and tapped playfully at the stones by her feet. Metal locusts flew out of the palace and buzzed about her face.

  “I offered you everything,” Ptolemy said.

  A brace cradled him and swung him out above the patio. He looked down upon her, and she could see discoloration in the whites of his eyes.

  “You ran into the arms of my enemies,” he said.

  A locust hovered before her. Its abdomen curled under itself, revealing a scorpion-like tail. With a puff of air, the locust shot a stinger, no larger than a bee's barb, into her neck. Fire shot through Amani's veins. Her legs buckled, and, as she fell, the garden’s metallic arms seized and held her against the stones.

  Ptolemy swooped down over her. “My people did not look far enough into your history, but I have had time since then.”

  Amani tried to break through the pain and speak, but a garden hand slithered across her cheek and shut her mouth.

  “Treachery is patient,” he said, “but from the start, you were Ma'nakhtuf's weapon against me.”

  Amani struggled against her restraints. Ptolemy drew closer until she could smell the stench of his breath.

  “He kept the annex secret because he understood I would ask how he knew these things,” Pharaoh said. “The work Alexander stopped in Rhakotis had always been secret, and Alexander kept it that way. We executed most of the Egyptians involv, but some blended in with the ignorant masses. They passed down the stories from generation to generation until Ma'nakhtuf passed them down to you. When we selected you as a possible companion for my daughter, he saw his opportunity. You would do more than carry the secret. He sent you to destroy my family.”

  Drool gathered at Ptolemy's lips, and his face flushed with rage. “I know what your family used to be. The power you lost, you would now rob from me and my family, but I will not allow it.”

  He hung above her, red-faced, eyes bulging. The sounds of escaping steam counted time in an unseen distance.

  The garden arms moved, freeing Amani’s mouth. “Pharaoh, I come only as a friend.”

  The arms tightened their grip upon her and then let go, jerking arhythmically.

  With a gasp of air, Ptolemy sputtered. At Pharaoh’s command, the machine swung him back inside the palace and laid him on his bed. He rested on his side, the brace and arm attached to him at the back. The sight reminded Amani of Moira.

  The garden arms retracted back into their hiding places. Amani risked walking to the palace threshold. Ptolemy watched, but said nothing. He looked as if it took all his energy to keep breathing.

  “I'm only here to advise,” Amani said.

  “How would you advise me?”

  At last, a question for which she had prepared. “This is the land of my people and the knowledge of my people. I can only serve both by first serving Pharaoh.”

  “Power has a long memory.”

  “Maybe we can discuss the factories,” she said.

  “The descendant of a foreign governor would tell me where to build?” A coughing spasm wracked his body.

  “You're not well,” she said. “Let me call for help.”

  His mouth drew tight and fierce and then quivered. He beckoned her to him. She remembered Salvius's warning. The room felt bleak and dead, with metallic arms like the bones of a great beast suspended overhead. She remained at the threshold.

  “I want to show you beauty,” he said.

  All around them, gas-fed lamps changed in hue, bathing the walls. Secret, tiny doors sprung open and metallic creatures buzzed out on whizzing wings, flying in gossamer displays of color. The whistling notes of a calliope filled the room, and moving statues entered on tip-toe, scattering rose petals.

  Ptolemy's eyes closed as the statues danced. His chest ceased moving. Color drained from his face.

  Papyrus 6.03

  Together, Cleopatra and I went to Lochias.

  Salvius, in his chunky armor, bade us wait in the chateau nestled between Lochias and the harbor-side palaces, and Cleopatra protested this abominable treatment as we lounged with our wine and ate bread and fruit.

  “I knew she'd come home,” Cleopatra said over her wine. “If Amani were alive, I knew she'd find a way.”

  I had known no such thing. We consoled each other, nursing our memories, drowning our
fears. The wine permeated us in soothing waves as the breathy notes of the cornucopia filled the night.

  I change the subject. “How went your meeting with Pothinus?”

  “He still intends to credit my brother,” Cleopatra said, her voice a little too loud. “I need this. After Berenice, my father made me co-regent because it was convenient. I fill the empty spot in name only; he rules alone, but this is mine.”

  “That time was a gift,” I said. “It allowed us to focus on the books. We have knowledge. All they have is politics.”

  She smirked at me. “Maybe you haven't noticed how the world works. In a race between knowledge and politics, politics wins, every time.”

  I had noticed. “So, what do we do?”

  “You're my advisor; advise me.”

  “We do politics, and we do it better. The three don't just want to silence you, they want you out. Your sister would be easier to overwhelm, and you're a threat.”

  “We need the people on my side.”

  “And the Gabiniani,” I said.

  She glanced at the door.

  “They'd have to turn both against you,” I said. “We have to make sure that never happens.”

  She held up her hand to stop me. The conversation had strayed beyond safe perimeters. She set down her wine and stared into it. Every year Pharaoh lived diminished the minsters’ power. Our best hope remained in a living Flutist.

  Salvius returned. Puffs of steam wafted behind him.

  Cleopatra rose to her feet, graceful and self-assured. “Philostratos, it is time.”

  “Forgive me,” Salvius said. “Only you.”

  “My father may have called for me,” she said, “but my minister will come as far as the steps.”

  Salvius nodded.

  I followed Cleopatra through the colonnade. A lean figure stood at the palace threshold.

  “The woman beckoned,” Salvius said. “She says your father needs you. Only you. If it is not safe, if you don't know the woman, tell me now.”

  Amani had grown tall and lean. Muscular.

  Cleopatra squinted across the wine-colored distance. “You've been a good man to my father, Salvius; you and Lucius, both.”