Cleopatra's Secret: Keepers of the LIght (38 page)

With the wave of her hands she drew a curtain of thick gray mist to separate her enemy’s fleet from her own. Half drunk with magic, Cleopatra watched as the currents pulled her ships away from the danger into sunlit sea, while Octavian's fleet was blocked by the high impenetrable wall of billowing fog.

Her numb hands lost their grip on the railing. Some internal black hole was sucking the strength out of her. She saw again with a fresh stab of grief Antony’s ship dragged beneath the sea.

The feeling was disappearing from her lips and feet. Was she dying too? Raising so much power was dangerous for a mortal. Even one with divine blood flowing through her veins. She felt light-headed and dizzy as her ship cut through the waves. The sun burned too hot. The swaying motion of the boat disoriented her.

She tried to call out for Apollodorus, but it was too late, too much. The life force had been sucked clean out of her. Cleopatra’s knees buckled and she collapsed unconscious on the hard wooden planks.

***

When Antony discovered Octavian’s trick, without thinking, he leapt onto the ship’s railing and plunged into the cold surf, swimming like a madman for his own galley.

His legionnaires cast down ropes and he grasped them in his frozen fists, clambering aboard. But the expression on his men's faces showed him it was too late.

Antony exploded onto the deck. “We’ll burn every boat in their fleet until we find him! It’s not too late to seize victory!”

Heartened by his words, his men roared their approval and at Antony’s orders, turned the boat recklessly, aiming the warship’s massive battering ram into the heart of Octavian’s fleet. Antony never saw the galleon he had escaped from as the flaming mast came down and the greedy waves sucked her into the ocean’s depths.

As his own warship daringly broke behind enemy lines, Antony was at the bow, poised for attack, when the angry sound of the sea rising up in enormous waves, smashing together in unruly swells of frothy surf threw him violently to the deck’s floor. He sprang up, gaping in amazement as the sea tossed his fleet like the bejeweled toy ships in Cleopatra’s fabulous baths.

Antony squinted through the gathering storm for her galley with its standard of the Egyptian cobra coiling upon its purple silken banner. He could just make it out, the ship dragged by the waves, pitching wildly farther and farther away as rising mist almost obscured her from view.

Panic seized him. If they continued on that course, Cleopatra’s boat would be dashed against the boulders on the Ionian shoreline. He saw her in his mind’s eye, torn from the safety of her ship by the wildness of the sea, her bones smashed against jagged rocks or sucked to the murky ocean’s bottom, her limbs unnaturally pale and heavy, her long black hair fanned out like seaweed floating beneath the waves.

Antony searched for Cleopatra’s boat on the horizon but in the heavy mist he could barely make out the ship’s ghostly silhouette. It was almost gone. If he hesitated a moment longer she would be lost to the storm and rocks. Perhaps lost to him forever.

He looked at his men, fighting so valiantly, and once more the specter of Cleopatra broken against the rocky shore hit him.

The water was colder than before as he landed with a splash into the sea and began to swim. He had to reach her. It wasn’t a choice anymore. Without Cleopatra there was no reason to conquer the world or even live in it. As he broke through the curtain of fog, swimming desperately for Cleopatra’s ship, he never saw in the misty waters behind him, Octavian raise the flag of victory and set a course northwards to Rome.

Cleopatra dwelled somewhere in the dream world, where thoughts hung together on gossamer threads only to dissolve the moment she could begin to discern them. She was haunted by the lower spirits and preying demons who rose up to assault her weakened body and mind in the swirling darkness. If it were not for the guardian, Anubis, who held them at bay with his menacing growls, her soul might have been dragged down to the underworld for eternity.

Cleopatra wandered lost through the mist-shrouded Land of the Reeds, the vacant-eyed dead passing her by as they went on their journey. She stood anxious and confused, watching them, not sure where she was supposed to go. Clammy moisture clung to her skin and she inhaled the smell of the Nile mud, which slid beneath her feet, as everywhere the phantoms of the dead floated downstream in eerie silence.

There was somewhere else she was meant to be. Some urgent business awaited her. But she couldn’t remember what it was. Only that it was of desperate importance.

What was it?

She pressed her palms to her damp forehead trying to remember, but only vague ideas teased her mind then vanish like a fish surfacing for a moment, a flash of silver against the current, only to disappear from sight, slipping through the fingers that try to grasp it as it escapes below the waterline.

Panic was starting to set in.
What was it she needed to do?

She looked around for any clue at all. The menacing gray mist sent a shudder through her. The outline of dark inhuman shapes scuttled through the fog. What demons waited for her, hidden in the cloudy billows? She could feel their eyes on her, iridescent and hungry for souls. Staking her out.

And where was Anubis? Her guide? She searched the fog-drenched landscape but he was gone.

A low bestial whine raised the hair on the back of her neck as the shadow figures shifted closer. She backed away, her heart was beating too fast, the fear taking over, overloading her with adrenaline and an irrational panic she could no longer fight.

Why was she here? What was it she needed to do?

Burying her head in her hands, she tried to block out the sensation of her mind slipping away from her altogether. Tried to catch hold of enough sanity to quell the terrifying feeling of madness spreading like a malignant disease through her brain.

Primal urges took over.

Like a cornered beast, she crouched in the flowing Nile and frantically doused her face with cold water, desperate to fight off the insanity taking hold of her with the shock of icy water against her skin.

The coldness hit her cheeks, blocking out everything else like a purifying flame, and in the moment of quiet, she was just able to discern the sound of ancient prayers being chanted.

She strained to identify the voice.

There was something familiar and comforting in its timbre. It was a man’s voice, sure and deliberate, with the slightest quiver of age. Through its words and intention, it was clearing a space for her, making a way, recalling her to herself.

She closed her eyes and listened to the words, listened to the voice. She recognized her grandfather’s prayers calling her back through the mist-shrouded Land of the Reeds, away from the place where the dead souls awaited their judgment by the Gods, back to the painful churning world of life.

She remembered now. She was Cleopatra, daughter of Isis, Pharaoh of Egypt.

It took all the energy she could muster to open her eyes. She was in her chamber at Lochias. Apollodorus stood above her chanting, his hands hovering protectively over her heart.

He had never looked so ancient.

Iris knelt on the floor beside her bed, her blue eyes lined with crimson blood vessels from the tears she had shed. Caesarion stood with his back to her, gazing out the window over the ocean, a frown furrowing his copper brow. She felt him as he sensed she was awake. He turned to look at her, then closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, as though he had not taken a real breath in much too long. Charmion, she knew, was with her other children, but Antony's absence filled the room with empty space.

“Antony,” she whispered through parched lips, her tongue heavy.

Apollodorus ceased his chanting, and opening his eyes, looked down on his granddaughter. “Don’t disturb yourself, child. Antony returned to Egypt with the fleet and is unharmed. Almost all of your ships and the treasure of Egypt survived the battle.”

Cleopatra frowned. If Antony was well, where was he?

Iris lowered her eyes and would not meet Cleopatra’s gaze.

Even Apollodorus looked away from her inquiring eyes.

But Caesarion, reading his mother’s thoughts, stepped up, his eyes ablaze. But when he would speak, Apollodorus frowned at the young prince. Tightening his jaw, Caesarion turned away.

“Tell me,” whispered Cleopatra.

Ignoring protocol, Apollodorus touched the top of her head, as if she were a little child. “You must rest. Sleep deeply now, and when you wake, I will give you something to restore your strength, but you must rest. You have been very ill.”

As though her grandfather exerted some power over her, her eyes seemed to close of their own accord and she found herself slipping into a deep and dreamless sleep with no specters of the dead or rank river water to trouble her.

***

When Cleopatra woke again it was close to midnight. The waning moon hid behind a mask of clouds and the dark sea below Lochias palace barely stirred. Iris was at her side, humming a low prayer, her light eyes reflecting the glow of the small lantern illuminating Cleopatra's bed.

Her attendant had purple almost bruise-like smudges under her eyes, but Iris’s pale face was smooth and calm as any temple priestess. Sensing her Queen’s revival, she dropped her tune and met Cleopatra’s questioning eyes.

“Octavian has returned to Rome with news of what he claims to be his victory. He tells the world that you are a coward who ran from battle, that Antony is bound to you with no will of his own. All consumed by love, he couldn’t bear to see you leave and abandoned his men to hurry after you. In the eyes of the world, and Rome’s legions, including those commanded by Lord Antony, Octavian is victorious because he says he is. He has raised an even larger army than before and they’re marching towards Egypt.” She dropped her eyes but her calm soft voice remained steady. “Antony has shut himself up on Pharos in a fisherman’s hut below the lighthouse. He won’t speak to anyone. He has not come to your bedside once.”

Cleopatra digested the news in silence for a moment, then whispered, “Thank you, Iris.”

Her attendant had read her thoughts and understood she would not rest until she knew everything that had taken place during her illness. But what bitterness to awaken to! Cleopatra almost wished she could return to the misty Land of the Reeds, where she didn’t know what was happening, did not understand how very much needed to be righted––if only the Gods would give her the power. But with her body and mind still weak, she knew she was not yet up to the task. Weary to the bone, she closed her eyes and slept again.

***

The golden light of day spilled in Cleopatra’s window and the fresh smell of the ocean breeze called her to awaken. Iris was gone and Apollodorus once more tended her bedside. With effort she propped herself up on her pillows.

Apollodorus bowed. “Good morning, Queen of Heaven.”

“Good morning.” She met her grandfather’s eyes and some of his strength transmitted itself like a ray of sunshine from his solid wise spirit to hers.

“I need medicine for strength,” she said, looking around the room taking in her familiar surroundings.

But it was only after Charmion had brought in a tray of food and supervised her consumption of it, that Apollodorus produced a healing draught. Cleopatra drank the bitter brew and was rewarded with a feeling of vitality washing through her, but the sickly stench of her nearly fatal illness still clung to her body.

With the assistance of Charmion, she threaded her way through the garden pathways of Lochias to her luxurious bathhouse. She entered the elaborately decorated building laced with ivory and gold friezes of intricately designed water lilies and statues of lightly draped Goddesses of Beauty gracing the entrance hall. As her servant girls opened the doors to the main bathing pools, the sweet smell of cypress steam rose up all around her and the tinkling sound of fountains spewing forth their healing waters in playful jets and marble waterfalls sang in her ears.

With a sigh of relief, she allowed her stale linen to fall to the floor, sinking gratefully into the pool of thermal mineral springs which bubbled up through the copper pipes. The rushing water cleared the dirt from her pores, enervating her entire body with fresh tingling water.

As she rose from the bath, she saw how her usually ripe full body had grown leaner during her illness.

How long had she lain drifting in the underworld?

Cleopatra stretched out and gratefully succumbed as Charmion massaged her with myrrh and rose oil until she was grounded and connected to her life and body once more.

Like it or not, she must stay here. Egypt and her children needed her. And then there was Antony….

Across the shimmering port of Alexandria she sensed the psychic wall Antony had erected around himself. She felt his spirit rotting with bitterness, like a black noxious gas swirling beneath the lighthouse.

How could he fall apart so completely now when she need him most? Was it her fate to always be so painfully disappointed by him?