"Hmm. The Museum holds the greatest library in the world." Thyatis' voice was soft in the darkness. She stopped. Nicholas could make out the bare outline of an arched whitewashed gate. "The others are already inside. Does this poet know any of the ancient languages?"
"Supposedly he's the best. Even with really old carvings." Nicholas shrugged, thinking of the restored parchment and the indecipherable glyphs ringing the wheels within wheels of the telecast. "Do you want to show him the… ah… the device?"
"No!" Thyatis chuckled, reaching over the gate to lift the locking bar. "We show no one what we're looking for." Her voice turned wry. "We probably shouldn't know what it looks like ourselves."
Keeping her fingers from shaking by an act of complete concentration, Betia unfolded the paper. The room hidden under the temple of Artemis was very old. Blackened stones matched the cutwork of the obscure entrance and the arch over the door only a pair of tilted slabs. She was sweating, moisture beading in tiny, shining drops on her neck, though the air in the room was cool, almost chill.
"This, my lady," Betia said, keeping her eyes focused on the parchment, "is what we have been sent to secure." The drawing of the telecast was stark in the lamplight, resting in a pool of light surrounded by darkness. "'The Emperor Galen, Augustus of the West, has determined one, perhaps two of these devices once dwelt in Egypt, possessed by the pharaoh…'"
"'…Nemathapi, long may his name be cursed.'" The words were clipped, each one given full weight by exacting pronunciation. A withered hand, heavy with rings of lapis and garnet, moved at the edge of the light and one of the sisters of the temple moved the parchment to the far edge of the stone table. The light, spilling from a hooded lantern, moved to keep the diagram illuminated. "A vapid little man, like all his kind, who wished only to live forever. And he will, for we will not soon forget him or his treachery."
Betia remained silent, kneeling on the cold floor, head bent. The time spent in service with the Duchess now seemed very pleasant, her training on the Island a fondly remembered idyll. Her cheek stung from where a brawny sister had clubbed her to the floor of the atrium. Apparently the daughters of the Huntress in Alexandria were no friends of Rome. The cold, forbidding voice in the darkness filled her with dread, for this was Egypt and some things here, she heard, had learned to walk, when they should rightly crawl.
"But you do not serve the Emperor Galen, do you child? Not if you bring me this foul news."
"No, my lady," Betia squeaked. "The task of finding the telecasts was entrusted to my mistress, the Duchess De'Orelio and she has sent her agent, Lady Thyatis, to see the device does not fall into the hands of the Emperor."
Dry, papery laughter echoed in the darkness. "De'Orelio? How droll. Yet you said sent to secure-your mistress Thyatis owns two masters? Has she come in the company of the Emperor's men, a guide, an advisor, a bed companion for their captain?"
"No." Betia stiffened and almost looked up. A powerful, calloused hand caught her neck and shoved her down. The girl bit her lip, mastering her anger and let herself breathe in, then out. A strange odor tickled her nose, but she ignored the slow pricking of gooseflesh on her arms. "She leads the Emperor's company-we are five: Thyatis, myself, an African, an Eastern soldier and a Walach. We arrived today, aboard the Paris, straightaway from Ostia port."
A lengthy silence followed her words and Betia became uncomfortably aware of silvery trails of sweat purling down her arms as she knelt.
At last the voice resumed, though a thread of anger suffused the clipped voice with growing heat. "The Duchess intends a game of shells, then, where your precious Thyatis vigorously searches, yet never finds. Or, perhaps, you expect us to conjure up some likely-seeming bits and pieces, a token for the Emperor, so the Duchess may claim success in her so-dutiful task?"
Swallowing to clear a dry throat, Betia said, "My lady, all my mistress bids me say is this: you should know what Lady Thyatis seeks, and do whatever is necessary to ensure she does not find the device! She does not wish to know where it might truly lie! A false trail could be laid, leading Lady Thyatis astray…"
Again, the silence dragged. Betia felt her calves begin to cramp, and shifted her weight subtly, pressing her heels against the smooth, glassy stone floor until the spasm passed.
"There is slight merit in such a suggestion," the voice said, simmering with anger. "What she does not know, she cannot reveal. Still, by my memory both Eyes are intact and well hidden." A whispering sigh followed. "Yet, where is the honor of noble Khem? Lost-corrupted long ago by foreign blood, by men seeking power and ancient secrets-and nothing built by human hands can remain hidden forever."
Cloth rustled and from the corner of her eye, Betia saw a withered hand enter the pool of lamplight and lift up the parchment. In the darkness beyond, the voice was only a dark, indistinct shape. "Child, listen. I wish, as do the old in their dotage, the duradarshan had been destroyed long ago or cast into the sea or shattered in Ptah's forge. Yet, they were not. Both Eyes are intact, whole, unmarked, unblemished. Nemathapi was not the only ruler to desire them-even though men had forgotten their true use and power-for even in his degenerate age they were, they are, a sign and symbol of the first kingdom."
The hand shifted, turning the parchment. Rubies and cabochons blazed on ancient fingers. "There are those in the city, even today, who might know where the Eyes came to rest. Tell your mistress-this formidable Thyatis you love so much-we shall send a swift party to move the Eyes to a place of greater safety. Too, my daughters will set a watch on those who might know the provenance of old Egypt's treasures."
The dim coal of anger grew stronger with each word. "This much," the dry voice said, almost spitting, "we will do for the Queen of Day."
Betia remained kneeling while the priestesses filed out of the room, carrying a litter and the woman hidden within. Some time after they were gone, she dared raise her head. The parchment remained on the table, glowing softly in the light of the single lamp. Tentatively, she picked it up. Across one corner, where a nail might lie while reading, there was a sharp new cut as if a swordblade had been drawn across the parchment.
The chill in the air did not abate and Betia left as quickly as she could.
— |-
A fragment of half-familiar sound caught Shirin's attention; some tone of voice or remembered trick of phrasing reaching her ear through the din and racket of the street. Cautiously, she looked up from her hamper, one hand checking the lace veil across her nose. The Khazar woman was sitting on the top step of a triumphal entryway into the Museion, a long, rectangular building within the greater royal district of the Bruchion. Dozens of other people loitered on the staircase, reading scrolls, eating their lunch, declaiming about religion and politics. Among them, she was happily anonymous, just another woman of the city with a bag of fresh vegetables, watching the constant parade of humanity passing in the avenue below. The top step allowed her to sit half in shadow, her feet in the hot sun.
Two figures were climbing the worn sandstone steps in haste, voices low.
Shirin expected to see the big Persian and his smaller, older accomplice. By luck, she had caught sight of the two men three days previous as they entered the Museion. Unhappily, they had vanished into the sprawling complex before she could follow. Her vigil since then, in as wide a variety of clothing and appearance as she could manage, had been fruitless. Unwilling to openly question the clerks and scribes working inside, she had settled in to wait and watch, hoping they would return.