The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) (5 page)

“If you
take one step toward me, if anybody takes one step toward me, you won’t live
beyond the morning!”

The
creature writhing in her hand flared its hood, the “brave” Roman troops jumping
back at the famous hiss, it so low it was easily mistaken as a growl.
Who’s
in control now?
She smiled as she felt the rush surge through her veins,
the feeling of control she hadn’t had for days suddenly restored. This was
her
chamber,
her
city,
her
kingdom, once again, and she was a Queen,
a Pharaoh, to once again be listened to and respected.

The
snake slithered in her hand, its head squirming in protest, but she merely
squeezed tighter, controlling it as she had once controlled an empire with her
Antony. And now she would strike one final blow in their name against their
enemy, by denying him his greatest prize.

She
looked at Epaphroditus who stood the closest, but too far to interfere with her
plans, even his loyalty to Octavian not great enough to risk the bite of a king
cobra.

“You
will deliver a message for me to your master.”

Epaphroditus
bristled at her words.

“I am a
freedman,” he said, his voice cold, a hint of anger at having to define himself
to her creeping into his voice. “I have
no
master, but I serve, by my
choice, Octavian.”

Cleopatra
bowed her head slightly with a smile.

“And at
his pleasure, I am sure.”

Epaphroditus
returned the bow.

“Of
course.”

“And you
will deliver my message?”

“Of
course.”

“Then
tell Octavian that I, Cleopatra the Seventh, daughter of Ptolemy the Twelfth,
the reincarnation of the goddess Isis, and rightful ruler of this land, deny
him his prize. He will not be permitted to parade me through the streets of
Rome as a slave, a humiliated former ruler of a far off land Romans are too
ignorant of to realize predated their pathetic empire by thousands of years,
with monuments greater than the greatest ever built by their hands, that will
last until the end of time as symbols of our power.

“I deny
him his prize. Forever shall Romans’ memories of me be that of the Pharaoh of
Egypt, arriving in Rome, their mighty Julius Caesar my puppet, my entourage so
massive and elaborate, it rivaled the entrance of anyone before or since,
proving the wealth and superiority of the Egyptian people. Forever will he be
forced to remember that it was
my
statue that Caesar erected in his
famous temple of Venus, as I am Isis, reincarnated once again to shepherd my
children to safety.

“And
though I have failed this time, I shall be back, in another form, to deliver
the masses from the evil that is Rome, and once again, as I suckled my son
Horus, the god of war and protection, at the beginning of time, I shall return,
to suckle man’s savior from Rome. Remember the words I speak here today, for
though they may be forgotten to history, when I return, the world shall shudder
in relief as I deliver them their savior, their protector, their warrior
against evil and those who would serve it.

“For
today I do not die, I merely return to my throne in the heavens, leaving
Octavian without his prize, his legacy the humiliation of his failure at
preventing a lone woman from taking her own life.”

She
looked up, through the ceiling, and into the heavens, her heart hammering in
her chest.

“I do
this for you, my beloved.”

She
turned the head of the cobra toward her, and plunged it into her bare chest.
She felt the creature writhe against her skin as Epaphroditus leapt toward her,
her handmaidens and the other guards watching in horror.

Then she
felt the bite, the creature finally fed up with her controlling it, it lashing
out in the only way it knew how. Its fangs sank into her soft skin, and she
cried out in pain as the poison pumped into her blood, then through her system,
the warmth, the numbness, flowing through her, spreading rapidly. As her
strength waned, she dropped the snake, and Epaphroditus sliced it in half with
his sword, catching her near naked form as she collapsed to the floor.

Swinging
her into his arms, he placed her gently on the bed, calling for a doctor, but
she knew there was no cure for her, no helping her. The bite of a king cobra,
even from birth, is deadly, and this one had been angry and scared, pumping her
with enough venom that she was certain it would be a quick death. Already she
could feel her eyes beginning to lock into place, the toxins paralyzing them.

Her
handmaidens came into view, pushing Epaphroditus aside, tears streaking their
faces as they praised her for her courage and strength, swearing to repeat the
story to all who would listen. Their voices faded, and soon all she could hear
was her own heartbeat, each beat seeming a little slower, each beat a little
weaker. She had no idea how she long she lay there. Minutes, hours, days, she
did not know. All she did know was that as she stared at the heavens above, she
could hear her beloved Antony calling to her, welcoming her to his side once
again, as her final sigh escaped the smile on her face.

I’m
coming, my love!

Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site

Two Days Before the Liberty Island Attack

Chaney marched over the rise to the south of the camp, then across
the flat plateau, scanning the horizon for anything of interest, but seeing
nothing.

We truly
are in the middle of nowhere.

The
vegetation was sparse, but there. It wasn’t a desert, not here, not this close
to the coast, and several ancient river beds, though dried up on the surface,
still seemed to have enough water below to feed a remarkable amount of flora.

But the
fauna was almost nonexistent. He couldn’t actually remember seeing even a bird
since he’d arrived. He scanned the horizon again, and saw something flicker in
the distance. Shading his eyes with his hand, he took another look, but could
see nothing, whatever it was, gone.

Probably
just the sun reflecting off water or some crystal in the rocks.

The
thought of crystals had him wondering if he’d get the chance to discover
something. The idea thrilled him, and he began scouring the ground as he
walked. To find something, something ancient, something that hadn’t been
touched in thousands of years would be an experience he would remember the rest
of his life.

And
it would drive Hugh nuts.

He
grinned at the thought of his former partner holed up in the air conditioned
tent. If he were to find something himself, he’d forget the heat and sand, and
lack of a telly, and instead get caught up in the excitement of what everyone
here was doing.

Exploring
the past.

Chaney
had always loved history, and excelled at it in school, but with his career,
and the Triarii, he barely had time to read anymore. Buying an eReader had
solved that somewhat. At least now he had a tiny device with tons of books on
it that didn’t take up much luggage space.

The
Triarii!

The
thought of them tore at his heart. An organization he had been a member of for
as long as he could remember, that had determined most of his decisions in
life, and now once again demanded his time. He had hinted to Professor Acton
that there was something he needed to talk to him about, and he could tell by
the Professor’s voice he knew it was Triarii related.

Before
he had left for Egypt the Proconsul had called him in and dictated the message
he wanted delivered to the Professor. When he had asked why, he was directed to
a chair, and brought up to date on events he had had no idea about, and they
chilled him to the bone.

A
civil war?

His
thought process was interrupted by a grouping of rocks that seemed out of place
in that they were the only rocks on the entire plateau. He strode toward them,
his eyes scanning the ground, and when he arrived, a quick examination revealed
nothing except one of the stones was invitingly flat.

He sat
down, removing his canteen from his belt. He took several swigs, then
absentmindedly kicked at the dirt as he swished the last sip around his mouth,
making certain every nook and cranny was moistened.

His foot
hit something and his heart raced as he dropped to his knees and began digging.

Outside Alexandria, Egypt

22 August, 30 BC

Tarik wept silently, his head turned from his brothers in shame as
he knelt, looking down at the valley below. It was the end of an era, and the
beginning of a new one, and despite the knowledge his Pharaoh, his leader, his
master, his god, was not dead, but merely in another place, living in paradise
above with the other gods, it tore at him inside. For he had loved his Pharaoh,
with all his heart, and had devoted his life to carving the very jewels that
adorned the living god.

And it
had been he that had arranged delivery of the king cobras to Cleopatra’s
chambers. When he had heard the news that spread throughout the city, then kingdom,
that she had been bitten by a snake and died, he had at first thought the plan
had gone wrong, that her attempt to kill Octavian had been a failure, until he
had heard the full story.

Suicide.

Intentional
suicide.

And when
he had heard the story from the mouth of the very messenger who had visited his
home that fateful night, he realized how her death was a tragedy, but the
method was a celebration. To deny Octavian his prize was the ultimate insult,
the ultimate failure on his part.

At first
when he heard the story, he had assumed Octavian would take one final act of
vengeance, and have her body torn apart and burned, but instead he had allowed
the traditional burial to proceed with all the honor and dignity a Pharaoh
deserved, save the public displays. She and Antony would be interred with
respect, but that was all.

Indeed,
Tarik had carved the very necklace that now adorned the fallen divinity in the
sarcophagus that would contain the body, now buried in secret, the unforgivable
sin of robbing the graves of their dead gods far too common. It was an act so
deplorable, so disgusting, that Tarik couldn’t fathom the depths of evil and
depravity that one must have fallen to in order to even contemplate such an
act.

It was
an act that should be punished by death. Horrible, agonizing, slow death. No
mercy should befall those who would insult their gods, those who would dare
touch the final resting places of their corporeal forms in this world.

He felt
a rage build in his stomach at the thought of someone stealing from his god,
whom he had worshipped since he was first weaned from his mother’s teat, and
honored with every carving he produced from a little boy. His father, who had
fallen to disease six harvests ago, had taught him the art of sculpture and
metal works, jewelry crafting and precious stone cutting. It was an honorable
trade, a profitable trade, and their family was among the richest in
Alexandria, owning many shops and houses, plus farmland outside the city and
throughout the kingdom.

His two
brothers, with him today, were as equally devoted to their Pharaoh as he was,
their own passions taking them to the farms the family owned, rather than the
jewelry business. It would be up to Tarik to father a son, and teach him the
trade so the family business could continue.

He felt
a hand on his shoulder, and he quickly wiped his eyes dry, then rose. His
brother Jabari smiled gently at him, his own cheeks stained from tears. Tarik
grabbed him and hugged him, the two sobbing as their youngest brother, Fadil,
wrapped his arms around them, joining in their sorrow.

He broke
away from the hug and held both brothers by the shoulders, looking at Jabari
then Fadil. “We must not let our god’s final resting place be desecrated. We
will stand guard until they have sealed the chamber.”

Jabari
nodded in agreement, but Fadil opened his mouth, then apparently thought better
of it, closing it.

“What is
it, little brother?” asked Tarik.

Fadil
opened his mouth, made a noise as if about to speak, then closed it again,
looking at the ground. “It’s nothing.”

Jabari
squeezed Fadil’s shoulder. “Speak, we are all brothers here.”

Fadil
looked up at Jabari, then at Fadil, then down in the valley below at the
ceremonial guard. “Well, I mean no disrespect brothers, but isn’t that their
duty?” he asked, motioning at the troop of soldiers below with his chin.

Tarik
grunted. “It may be their duty, but can they be trusted? How many times have we
heard of the graves of our ancestors, the graves of our gods, being desecrated,
while under guard?”

Fadil
nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose it’s true. Anybody can be bought for a price.”
He looked at his brothers with a smile. “Except us, of course!”

“Of
course, little brother!” agreed Jabari, giving him a one armed hug. “We want
for nothing, we lust for nothing, we are untouchable by graft and bribery.”

“Which
is exactly why it should be up to us, up to people like us, to protect the
resting places of the gods,” said Tarik.

Jabari
paused for a moment, studying his brother. “You sound as if you have a greater
purpose in mind than simply standing guard until the chamber is sealed at full
moon.”

Tarik
nodded. “Yes, I do. As I think of it more, we have a responsibility to all of
our gods. And who better than us to find out who has been robbing these sacred
places. I, a gemsman, who has been trained to recognize the craftsmanship of
the Pharaoh’s jewelers for many dynasty’s past. And you two, who also were
trained in the trade, but instead decided to get your hands dirty in the soil
of the Nile delta”—a grin broke out amongst all three, it an old family joke
that Jabari and Fadil moved to the farms to escape the need to bathe daily—“you
are both able to recognize the craftsmanship as well, and we as a family
frequent the very parties where this wealth would be displayed. It is us that
could bring these heathens to justice!”