Cleopatra's Secret: Keepers of the LIght (48 page)

Wearily, he raised his voice up and called to Thoth. He, who had brought the knowledge of the Light to earth, let him now help seal it away.

The trembling old man suddenly felt a surge of strength shake his body, as the divine power of the universe swept through him. He continued on with his invocation and Apollodorus's thundering voice shook the granite stones from their lodging. In a cloud of dust the massive blocks of stone came sliding down to shut up the entrance to the tomb, sealing it from the inside. The dust swirled in the torchlight and then all settled into a holy silence filled with the living presence of the universe.

Apollodorus paused for a moment, breathing in the close air of the tomb. His work was almost finished. He was shaking with the strain of conducting so much energy through his ancient nerves and he felt lightheaded and drained.

He looked one last time at Cleopatra, and with a final blessing, kissed her cool brow. Then he turned to the west and sank to his knees, whispering a quiet prayer. Yet his soft words held such powerful magic, they echoed off the high ceilings and golden walls like an auditory maze of invocations chanted by a chorus of supplicants. The words built in strength to a web of enchantment, filling the chamber until the stone statues began to shake and shatter to the floor.

Apollodorus was forced to cover his ears, cowering on the ground as he waited for the spell to take hold.

The words echoed through the tomb in a final crescendo of invocation and then ceased, the ancient syllables and tones dying away into the ether.

In the awesome silence which followed, the old priest pressed his forehead to the floor, and in the old language of the Gods, recited a prayer to Isis:

“
Lady that is called Goddess among women,

Lady who divides the Earth from the Heavens,

Lady who divines the path of the Stars,

Lady who orders the course of the Sun and Moon,

Lady of the Mysteries of Man,

Lady who is the Rays of the Sun and the Beams of the Moon,

Lady of Rainstorms who overcomes Fate

Queen of Rivers and Winds and Seas,

Come now!
”

He sat back in expectant silence.

Apollodorus sucked in his breath as the air began to tingle. A lulling, deep peace settled over him, such as he had not experienced since he was a small boy and Isis had come to his bedside in a halo of light to consecrate him to her service.

Tears of joy sprung into his old eyes as he felt her presence all around him, the tender loving embrace of the Divine Mother in which all sorrows melted away in a suffusion of rosy warmth and comfort. He felt her soothing hands touch his heart, and looking up in ecstasy from the place where he knelt, he saw Her.

Never had he beheld anything more beautiful. Even Cleopatra dimmed in the light of the unfiltered living Goddess. Her eyes glowed with tender affection and unending generosity, the robes which flowed around her softly full body containing all the colors of the universe.

Apollodorus struggled to take her all in. Though radiantly herself, she seemed to comprise the beauty of every woman in her lovely features which were broad yet delicate, dusky and dark, and yet fair as a white dove. Her hair fell over her round shoulders in waves of shimmering gold yet somehow also hung blue-black as the midnight sky at the dark of the moon. As her smile deepened, the pure uncompromised love which poured from her like a cornucopia filled the chamber.

Apollodorus bowed to the floor overcome by the full presence of Isis.

“
Apollodorus
,” came the musical voice. “
Do not despair. You and your Queen have done well. Could you have failed when you have always been guided by my hand?
” she asked, addressing the fears of his heart. “
All things have their cycles, and children playing at tyranny and war are only that, my child, a game of little consequence. It cannot change that I Am or what will be
.”

“I’ve grown so tired,” said Apollodorus, opening himself to Her after carrying the load of too many humans for too many years.

“
Rest then
.” She took him into her glowing arms and laid his head quietly upon her soft, comforting breast. “Rest in peace,” she crooned, stroking his head like a newborn’s.

Apollodorus felt all of his worldly burdens slip away with the soothing stroke of her hand and with a long sigh of relief, the old priest closed his eyes, releasing himself into the gentle embrace of eternity.

Isis, Lady of the Seas, looked down upon her sleeping children in their tomb. With the sweep of her hand, the pale green sea foam washed across the polished limestone floors and began slowly to fill the chamber with salty lapping waves. As the water rose, the candles went out with a hiss, and fabulous statues and treasures were hidden beneath swirling ocean. Playful jets of water streamed in from the cracks in the walls, until at last, the tomb and all its secret rooms and corridors lay protected beneath the crystal waters of the sea.

Cleopatra and her attendants had returned to the great womb of the Mother, resting protected in her warm waters. The risen ocean hid all signs of the structure from the outer world. Now only myths and legends would remind people that somewhere in the ocean depths lay the tomb of the last Pharaoh of Egypt.

From above the salty waves and light sea breezes, Isis smiled and the sun shone a little brighter.

Let no man disturb this tomb from this day forth––unless it is by My will
.

A faint nausea roused Octavian. He clutched at the sides of his bed, trying to steady himself against the sickening uneven tides churning beneath the galley. His slim frame shivered under the sheets in a cold sweat and every muscle in his body knotted up in fear.

Why had the nightmares he hoped would disappear once he vanquished Antony and Cleopatra only intensified?

Prayers and libations at the temple of Apollo did nothing to assuage the midnight tortures that troubled his dreams. How many snowy white doves had he sacrificed on the altar of his God? The temple was slick with their blood. Yet still his prayers for relief went unanswered.

Tonight his dreams had taken on a more sinister tone than usual. As always, he stood naked in the hot sun of the Egyptian desert. Dry, angry bolts of lightning crackled in the air. Antony, alive again and brimming with all his Herculean strength, stood before Octavian, like an avenging God, his sword shining as the beams of the sun.

Paralyzed with fear, Octavian could not lift his own blade, but stood impotently cowering before the wrath of Antony.

The God raised his sword to strike Octavian down. Squeezing his eyes shut, Octavian cringed, waiting for one long relentless moment.

The blow never came.

But a bone-chilling hiss made him raise his eyes.

Antony had vanished. In his place, a cobra slithered restlessly on the sand, its head flared menacingly, venomous fire spit from its feathery forked tongue. The serpent’s needle-sharp fangs gleamed dangerously in the white-hot sunlight. Slowly shifting on the sand, the king cobra coiled and slithered, fixing his prey with unfathomable hypnotic black eyes. Octavian stood transfixed as the serpent suddenly shot forward.

With a mind-numbing shock of pain, the snake’s fangs punctured Octavian’s rib cage, piercing his heart, filling it with acid venom which burned, spreading, radiating through his bloodstream in a path of agonizing fire.

Octavian doubled over into the hot sand as the serpent silently slid away. He was dying here alone in the barren desert. The merciless eye of the sun scorched his skin and sucked the water of life from his body. Then, the sickening familiar feeling of the scorpions crawling around in his brain began. Nasty, dirty bugs tunneling through his tissue. He must get them out! Crawling through his head with their tiny squirming legs and filthy bodies! He would get them out if he had to tear his own skull apart and rip them from his mind with his bare hands!

His eyes popped open. He was in his silent dark chamber at the Palatine.

Watching from the corner of his room stood a young woman cloaked in black.

Octavia!

He reached out his hand. “Have mercy, sweet sister! Help me, please!”

But the woman’s hood fell back, revealing the fair Egyptian witch who had mocked him in Cleopatra’s tomb. She watched him with brooding blue eyes.

He shrank back beneath his sheet as she held out a small white hand and whispered curses over his body. “
You will die at the hands of a woman. You will found a line of Caesars who will be sickened with the curse of insanity. Your seed will commit matricide, incest and destroy their own precious Rome in a holocaust of fire and the empire you build will crumble in the ashes of defeat
.”

“Witch!” he screamed. “Sorceress––you curse me!”

“You have cursed yourself,” whispered the phantom, fading into the dawn light.

Then he awoke, exhausted and sick aboard this wretched ship.

What must he do to make the dreams stop? His normally rational mind spun like a pinwheel. Surely there was something––always he could find some way to get what he wanted. Perhaps Apollo wished for something bigger than doves to remove such powerful demons from his mind? Perhaps the sacrifice of an untouched virgin girl….

But his galley was sailing into the port of Ostia and his steward hovered fearfully in his doorway, waiting to prepare him for his triumphal return to Rome. It was time to rise and take up the reins of his empire.

***

The rabble of Rome gathered early to secure the best places along the parade route. Tales of the fabled treasure Octavian brought back from the exotic land of Egypt filled their imaginations and their longing to see the fabulous wealth of Queen Cleopatra with their own eyes hastened them to the streets.

It was a blazing hot day with bright blue skies overhead and Octavian’s declaration was proclaimed by heralds with trumpets blaring along the wide boulevards that this month would henceforth be known as August, in commemoration that he, Augustus Caesar, had vanquished his most formidable enemies in this season.

The trumpets sounded again. A flurry of roses filled the air and the pillaged treasures of Egypt were paraded across the newly constructed boulevards on a carpet of softly falling flower petals. Chariots, drawn by Cleopatra’s royal pet lions, carried Octavian’s legionary commanders with their laurel crowns amidst frantically cheering crowds, drunk on the free wine Octavian made sure to liberally provide well before the start of the parade. The sweating, overheated crowd leered as young Egyptian girls, bound for the slave markets, were led in chains, half naked before the drunken rabble who hooted and hollered lewd comments as the miserable captives trudged down the Via Sacra.

A thrilled ripple ran through the crowd as a jewel-encrusted elephant slowly pounded his way past, his frightened eyes rolled back in his head, the chains of his captors chafing raw welts on his dry flesh.

A circus of Alexandrian acrobats and magicians, performing in this show of Octavian’s in exchange for their lives, danced and juggled, and sprung about like leaping monkeys, entertaining the crowd with the lively contortions of their bodies to the rattling systrums and bells shaken by musicians who skipped along with them under the blazing sun.

The people stepped back a pace as wild tigers and elegant black panthers roared as they passed by in their cages, destined for the coliseum where they would entertain the crowd later this evening by tearing the Egyptian captives limb from limb in a bloody spectacle which the insatiable Romans would grow to expect from their emperors in the violent days to come.

At last, Octavian’s chariot appeared in the distance. Before him, a hundred young maidens, dressed in the simplicity of white robes, their hair tied modestly back carrying the bows of Apollo in their hands came marching forwards. As Octavian’s chariot drew up before the Field of Mars, his attendants released a flurry of white doves. From this storm of softly flapping feathers, he emerged as rosy and beautiful as any immortal, dressed in shimmering white, the gold wreath of an Emperor adorning his fair hair. No one could wonder that he claimed Apollo as his true father.

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.