Queen of Kings - Maria Dahvana Headley [7]
Sekhmet, Nicolaus suggested. An older goddess, and a darker one.
The Scarlet Lady some called her. That, or the Lady of Slaughter. Sekhmet’s breath was the desert wind, and her purpose was warfare. The lion-headed deity was a protector in battle, stalking over the land and destroying the enemies of the pharaoh. Death and destruction were her nectar. She was the goddess of the end of the world, the Mistress of Dread, and she drank the blood of her foes. Sekhmet would as easily drink the blood of the Romans. They would have no idea what had come for them. If Octavian thought to conquer Cleopatra, he could die trying.
Cleopatra surveyed her preparations. The goddess, in the form of an icon encrusted with coral, lapis, malachite, carnelian, bloodstone, and opal, occupied a new place of honor, enshrined near the tombs. The icon was older than anything else in the room, dating from a time long before Cleopatra’s family had reigned. As for the rest, Cleopatra had spent a lifetime acquiring these treasures. More than a lifetime. The portions she hadn’t obtained herself as offerings and gifts had come down from her father, and his father before him, from her queenly grandmothers and from Alexander himself. They had accrued over three hundred years, from all of Africa and Macedonia, from Italy, from India, from the waters and the deserts, from the sky and caves and stars, from the edges of the world.
All that time, Egypt had been ruled over by her family, beautiful, ferocious descendants of the gods.
It was fitting that it would be she who saved Egypt, using her own wits and talents. Her father had been a weak-willed ruler. The men before him were the same, fattening on the luxuries afforded them as kings. Cleopatra and her grandmother, on the other hand, warred and gained lands. They’d made alliances and brokered compromises. This was the culmination of Cleopatra’s work.
Why, then, was she so afraid? A droplet of blood flew out from her shaking hand, spattering on the icon. She quickly pulled her hand back.
“Find me a spell,” she’d ordered the scholars days before, when it had become clear that Octavian would not give up his claim on Egypt. “A spell for a summoning.”
Nicolaus the Damascene, tutor to Cleopatra’s twins, found this one deep in the collection, although he complained that it was not entirely complete. A part of the scroll had been lost in the fires at the Great Library of Alexandria, and what remained was unclear.
Cleopatra called upon another scholar, this one Egyptian, to assist in the translation. He startled when he saw the scroll.
“Where was this found? It should not exist. The spell is not to be used lightly,” he informed her indignantly.
“Lightly?” Cleopatra asked. “I do nothing lightly. Do you believe that Egypt is governed lightly?”
“It is forbidden,” he insisted.
“I am a queen. Nothing is forbidden. It is not a spell for commoners. I will do it myself.”
“Then you are a fool,” the Egyptian said, looking her in the eyes.
She was shocked. How dare he speak so? She was still the ruler, though she did not know how much longer that would be true.
“The lost portion of the text would contain spells to protect the pharaoh who summoned the goddess. Do not think that your station will force Sekhmet to obey your wishes. She destroys. That is her nature. Such a one will not be easily controlled.”
“I thought you were a man of letters,” she said. “Not a common villager. Translate the spell. What I do with it is none of your concern.”
“I will not,” he replied, his voice shaking. “I cannot.”
“Then you will die,” she warned him. How dare he