The Vesuvius Isotope (The Katrina Stone Novels) (44 page)

“You haven’t really made me feel any better,” I say. “I mean, I’m glad to have broken up the drug ring, and I’m particularly glad to have discovered Vesuvium in time to save the lives of the Wilson’s Disease patients. Not least because my daughter is still alive to meet her new brother.

“But I know how these things go. If you cut off the head of a Naples crime boss, ten new heads spring up in its place. Why wouldn’t they continue to come after me? Or you, for that matter?”

To my surprise, Alyssa is now the one grinning. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me,” she says. “That’s why I insisted you meet me here. Let me tell you a little story.”

She stands and motions for me to follow her through the cemetery.

“After the death of Cleopatra,” Alyssa says, “Egypt was absorbed by Rome. Octavian, the Roman who defeated Cleopatra and Mark Antony, became Emperor Augustus. Augustus became obsessed with Egypt.

“I think that he was looking for something he knew Cleopatra possessed. I think that something was the source of her power. Many believed it was magic. But it wasn’t really magic at all, of course. It was science. Chemistry. The creation of poisons and medicines.

“We have ample evidence that Cleopatra was a scientist. But all this time, for reasons unknown, we have thought she was exploiting some extraordinary political skill—or, even more preposterous, her feminine wiles—to raise herself to a deity as Caesar had been raised. I realize now that we were all mistaken. She did not intend for her peers to elevate her to a god.
They already thought she was a god
.

“Cleopatra dedicated her life to developing the image of herself as the New Isis. The goddess of magic and medicine. And she produced one magic trick after another, to the fascination of her peers. The vinegar and the pearl. The nardos and the cancer patients. Even her own mysterious death.

“I think Octavian was the only one who saw through her charade. I think she fooled everyone—Mark Antony, Julius Caesar, all of them—except for Octavian. I think that at one point he might have even seen the nardo document, or another like it, and learned that her ‘magic’ was actually explicable and reproducible through natural phenomena. I think he was the only one who realized she was just a woman with extraordinary knowledge, and not a goddess, or even a magician. And I think that is how he was the one who finally had the
courage
to defeat her.

“Katrina, Octavian was the one who brought the aqueducts into Pompeii and initiated the agricultural pursuits there. I think he brought them in to reproduce her nardo phenomenon. I think he knew that if he himself could do what she had done, it would prove there was nothing supernatural about her, and thus he could destroy her.

“But she also took up residence in that very city and usurped the aqueducts he had established there for exactly the same purpose. And that was the initiation of the world’s first drug war, the one that continues to this day.”

We approach a row of elaborate mausoleums beneath a cluster of enormous, aging trees. I admire the architecture of the buildings while simultaneously reflecting upon Alyssa’s words. I begin reading the names and dates upon the monuments. And I come to understand why she has brought me here.

The moon herself grew dark, rising at sunset,

Covering her suffering in the night,

Because she saw her beautiful namesake, Selene,

Breathless, descending to Hades,

With her she had the beauty of her light in common,

And mingled her own darkness with her death.

-Eulogy for Cleopatra Selene

Chapter Thirty

The mausoleum at which we are standing holds a photograph. It is the black-and-white image of a woman—a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty. I glance into her lovely black eyes for a moment and envision the Cleopatra of Hollywood—the Elizabeth Taylor, the Angelina Jolie. The woman’s epitaph is inscribed in Greek; I know the letters from science. The dates of her life and death are listed: 1873–1957. The woman’s name is Selena Zenobi. It is a name I recognize.

“What happened to Cleopatra’s other children?” I ask Alyssa. “I know that Augustus killed her first-born, Caesarion… what happened to the other three?”

Alyssa smiles. She must know I have caught on to her game.

“I’m sure you won’t be surprised,” she says, “to hear that the
boys
disappeared from history. Cleopatra had borne twins by Mark Antony, a boy and a girl. The boy was named for the sun—Alexander Helios. The girl, the moon—Cleopatra Selene. Cleopatra’s third boy, her second son by Mark Antony, was named Ptolemy Philadelphus, after Cleopatra’s own lineage.

“Augustus allowed Cleopatra’s three children by Mark Antony to live but brought them to Rome to be raised by his sister, Octavia—the very woman who was Mark Antony’s wife prior to Cleopatra. Further details about the upbringing of the three children are murky until the marriage of Cleopatra Selene to King Juba II of Mauretania. The memoirs of Cassius Dio inform us that the two boys were still alive at the time of the marriage. Subsequently, they disappear from the record.

“I’m sure it won’t surprise you that, together, Juba II and Cleopatra Selene built a large library and a lighthouse in Mauretania. She bore two children: a son, named Ptolemy, of course; and a daughter, Drusilla. In this generation, it was the daughter who was lost to history. But her name survived.

“The son of Cleopatra Selene was educated in Rome and became part of the court of Antonia Minor—the niece of Augustus and daughter of Mark Antony and Octavia and, thus, Cleopatra Selene’s half-sister.

“Ptolemy enjoyed a very long reign as King of Mauretania, as both co-ruler with his father, Juba II, and as his successor. He married Julia Urania of the royal family of Emesa in what is now Syria. They had a daughter—again, Drusilla.

“Drusilla first married Marcus Antonius Felix, the Roman governor of Judea, and then King Sohaemus of Emesa—also known as Gaius Julius Sohaemus of Emesa. Thus, Drusilla became Queen of Emesa and bore a son, Gaius Julius Alexio, who later succeeded to the throne of Emesa.

“It is through Alexio that Zenobia, Syrian Queen of Palmyra, is descended. Zenobia was nicknamed the ‘Warrior Queen’ for having led a powerful revolt against the Roman Empire. She rode out in front of her army and fought alongside them. She also conquered and ruled Egypt for a period of time.

“Zenobia married a Roman governor, whose name has been lost, and, by him, had multiple offspring. Several were daughters, who later married into Roman noble families. Their one known son was Septimius Odaenathus. And it is from Queen Zenobia through Odaenathus that Cleopatra’s lineage descends to Zenobius—the first Christian bishop of Florence.

“We find Zenobius throughout Florentine art—”

“I’ve seen him,” I interrupt. “I have traveled to Florence numerous times and toured the art museums there. Botticelli. Three Miracles of Saint Zenobius.
Saint Zenobius?
” Suddenly, I am shivering.

“Yes,” Alyssa says. “As depicted in that piece and others, Zenobius was sainted for miracles of resurrection, the exact skill—the exact magic, if you choose to believe in it—first attributed to that ancient Egyptian goddess, Isis. And it is through the lineage of Cleopatra that he acquired it.”

“Descending from Cleopatra is an entire legacy,” I say.

“Indeed,” Alyssa agrees. “The legacy begins with the birth of Cleopatra Selene—which, by the way, occurred on December 25, exactly forty years before the accepted birth of Jesus Christ. And if you follow Cleopatra’s bloodline, you find her miracles throughout.

“Johann Winckelmann selected a very wrong metaphor in 1762 when he said that Alcubierre knew as much of antiquities as the moon knows of crabs. The moon—Cleopatra Selene—was nine or ten years old when her mother was documenting the conditions of ten terminally ill cancer patients on a sheet of papyrus. So the moon might have known a great deal about the plague of the crabs. Cleopatra’s knowledge of science and medicine has flowed through her bloodline for two thousand years. And so has some of the ‘magic’ that accompanied it.

“When we exposed one of Cleopatra’s magic tricks to the world, we defeated the
camorra
in battle. They can never reverse what we have done, so I don’t think they have any reason to come after us again. But the war continues, as it has all along.”

Alyssa reassuringly pats my shoulder. “And that is why you need not worry, my friend. Today’s descendants of Octavian have many others to concern themselves with besides you.”

The sun is beginning to fall behind the mausoleum, and I am growing cold in my short-sleeved shirt. I still need to find a hotel for the night, before my return tomorrow to the United States.

“How many are there?” I ask. “How many descendants of Cleopatra?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you think Raimondo di Sangro was one of them?”

“It’s possible. He certainly went after those papyrus scrolls with a fire in his belly. He certainly followed the cult of Isis. And he certainly produced science the world had never seen—some of it with acid, much like Cleopatra with the pearl. And, like her, he hid his work for the purpose of forever maintaining his own immortality. His eternal flame. Even if he wasn’t Cleopatra’s descendent, he was unquestionably her follower.”

“Will you try to contact them?” I ask. “Her living descendants?”

“No,” Alyssa says. “What would be the point? You don’t really think they would tell me anything, do you?”

I imagine a cemetery of mummified crocodiles, each one a vault filled with secret information.

“I suppose not.”

We exit the walled city and board the Metro, this time together. Again, the women move aside to offer me a convenient seat, and again I am grateful. Alyssa stands, holding onto the metal railing with her strong arm. She looks as tired as I feel.

For a moment, we ride the rocking train in silence. When I can contain my thoughts no longer, I speak. “Rossi killed your family. Your husband and your son and your daughter.”

I remember their images from the photos I had seen in her office the first day I met Alyssa Iacovani. I had thought she was having an affair with my own husband. And possibly that she had killed him.

“Yes,” she says, and her gaze drops to the floor.

“Were they twins?”

“Yes,” she says again.

“What were their names?” My voice cracks with the question.

“My son was Giuseppe. My daughter was Sofia. Of course, they carried the last name of my husband, Samir Ratib.

“He was Egyptian. I met him here, in Cairo, when I was doing my doctoral research. The twins were sixteen when I initiated the Piso Project. They were seventeen when my husband’s brakes failed and all three were killed.

“So I understand your grief,” she says, and now she is looking into my eyes. “And I’m so sorry to have caused it.”

The morning sickness I had endured for the first two months of my pregnancy is entirely absent now. But at this moment, I feel queasy. I draw a deep breath. “You knew the danger you were involving Jeff in before you ever called him.”

“Yes,” Alyssa says.

“You knew that he could easily be killed.”

“Yes,” she says.

Alyssa looks into my eyes again. “I knew Jeff was the most likely person in the world to help me solve the nardo puzzle. I believed that if he didn’t, this battle that has gone on for two thousand years might continue for a thousand more. How many husbands have been killed? How many children?” Her voice catches in her throat and she takes a breath.

“You followed Jeff’s career for a long time,” I say. “That was how you knew he would be the best person to help you. And I am sure you discovered a thing or two about my past as well. And that was why, even in his absence, you could bring yourself to involve me.”

Alyssa looks down again. “I knew that, if you were in my shoes, you would have done the same thing.”

The train comes to a halt at
Midan Tahrir
. I step off and approach the Ramses Hilton, grateful for the passport and money in my overnight bag.

Alyssa begins to walk in the other direction, but I reach forward and gently touch her arm to delay her a moment.

“He would have died from his cancer if you hadn’t called him,” I say.

She nods.

“And I also would have lost my daughter, and we would not have saved the thousands of people who contracted Wilson’s Disease, all within days of each other.”

She nods again. A tear runs down each of her cheeks, and she looks down at the sidewalk.

“So you see,” I say. “You have nothing to feel guilty about. Together, we saved thousands of lives. And you did not kill Jeff. As a matter of fact, I did.”

Alyssa only stares, and in her eyes is the dawning of understanding. It is the understanding that I have known since, lying in a Cairo hospital bed, I first saw John’s list of cancer patients. First, and again. It was the same list that has visited me in my nightmares for eight years. Alyssa places a hand on my arm, and her empty gaze tells me that reassuring words escape her.

I hug her one more time before leaving. As I approach the hotel that will be my home for my last night in Egypt, I rub my swollen belly with both hands. I imagine the young life inside of me. And I wonder what his legacy will be.

The glaring lights upon the brilliant white beds only accent the appalling conditions of the patients. They are crammed together, side by side and end to end. Thousands of adjacent hospital beds.

Beside me, a feeble plea comes forth from a teenaged voice.

“Please…”

I step forward. I pull a wheeled IV pole toward the bed and hang upon it a clear plastic bag, heavy with liquid. I tap the child’s vein and insert a needle as gently as I can.