Inside, in blessed cool gloom, a bevy of priests and Khamun's spear-thin shape were waiting. Despite the fierce protests of the clergy, legionaries with bared weapons stood in the shadows, their eyes glittering in the poor light, watching their commander walk past, into the center of the tomb.
An opening had been broken in one wall, leaving plaster and brick scattered on the floor. The wall had been painted with a colorful mural-all gold and red and azure-showing a mighty king in battle, throwing down his enemies. A gilded sarcophagus lay on the floor, gleaming in the light of lanterns and a dim blue radiance from windows beneath the roof. Octavian frowned, turning towards the Egyptian wizard. "I thought the Conqueror was entombed in solid gold."
Khamun bowed, wrinkled face creased by a sly smile. "My lord, one of the later Ptolemies found himself short of coin-he had the body removed, the coffin melted down, and the god's corpse placed in crystal instead."
The Roman snorted in amusement, then knelt by the head of the sarcophagus. A sheet of heavy glass covered the top of the coffin, allowing a distorted, milky view of the body within. Octavian grunted a little, running his fingers over the surface of the lid. The glass was of exceptional quality, with few bubbles or distorts. He raised his head and gestured to the legionaries biding in the shadows. "Bring levers and my grave gift."
The priests in the hall stiffened as two burly legionaries stepped up to the sarcophagus, iron pry bars in muscular hands. Octavian ignored the Egyptians and their half-choked cries of protest. "Open it up, lads, but carefully-I want nothing broken."
The two Roman soldiers grinned, but slid the pry bars under the glass with practiced ease and-after a moment's effort-popped the lid free. Grunting, they managed to get the cover loose and placed aside on the ground. Another man-one of Octavian's aides-opened a box of enameled pine. The smell of freshly cut flowers and incense rose from within.
Octavian knelt again, leaning beside the coffin, staring down at ancient, withered features. The man within-in his breathing life-had been of middling height, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted. Now all of his body save the face was carefully wrapped in layers of fabric and even now, after hundreds of years in the tomb, embalming spices and unguents tickled Octavian's nose. Curly hair lay matted against the skull, and the eyes were closed, as if the man was merely asleep. The young Roman frowned, reaching out with a questioning hand, then withdrawing before he touched the ancient flesh.
Carefully! He reminded himself, he's old and fragile-wouldn't do for the great Alexander to lose his nose from your clumsy touch!
"Curious… he looks nothing like my adoptive father." Octavian's voice was sad.
The old Egyptian, Khamun, raised an eyebrow in question. Octavian did not turn, but straightened up, remaining on his knees. "My adoptive father, Julius Caesar, believed himself the reborn spirit of Alexander." The young man's voice was soft and contemplative.
"He felt a great pressure throughout his life," Octavian continued, "and it made Caesar mad, I think, always racing to match the achievements of Alexander. Sometimes he complained of urgent dreams, and never accounted he had matched his old glory."
Khamun said nothing, though his face turned pensive. Octavian continued to speak softly and quietly, musing on the past. "He sent me a letter from Alexandria, soon after Pompey the Great was defeated. He too looked upon the face of Alexander… he said the visage was familiar but not his own face. That Woman played to his obsession, I think, plying Caesar with tales of reborn souls. She wanted him to be Alexander."
Octavian looked up at Khamun, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Are the souls of the great reborn, wizard? Could Alexander's spirit have dwelt in my father's body?"
"I have heard this said, my lord." Khamun took a moment to still his racing heart. A terrible thought had occurred to the old wizard, chilling his blood. "Many men, and women, too, oft claim the blood of the great heroes and kings runs in their veins… mostly those who hope for descent from some heavenly power. Alexander, I have heard, claimed his own house of Aegea descended from Hercules, and through him from Zeus Thundershield. I do not know if that is true."
Octavian stood, his expression turning cold. "You are not answering my question, wizard."
Khamun swallowed, but managed to speak. "There are some great spirits, my lord, which maintain after a man or woman dies. We call them the ka, and they do not die with the defeat of the physical body. Such a man as Alexander? His spirit might live on for a long time… but from what I have seen and read, it will be drawn like to like. In his own descendant, perhaps, he might live again. But the great Caesar is a trueborn Roman, yes? Born of Latin blood? Not a Macedonian… and everyone agrees Alexander's children perished, strangled or murdered by his successors."
Octavian continued to fix the old Egyptian with a cold stare, but at last relented, turning back to the coffin on the floor. "True," the young Roman mused, "his line ended in blood. So my father's dream was just that-a dream-though he was carried far on those wings! Just the memory of the man was enough…" Octavian's voice trailed off into silence.
A long moment passed and Khamun, seeing the young Roman deep in thought, did not venture to disturb him. Finally, Octavian roused himself, looked around and gestured to his aide. The youth unfolded a cloth in the box, and removed a golden diadem, surmounted by the eight-rayed star of the Macedonian kings. Octavian, moving with great care, settled the crown upon the ancient leathery head, then saluted the corpse as one Roman general might another. He followed the diadem with the petals of many flowers, strewn artlessly in the coffin.
"It is done," he said, and the two legionaries-under his careful eye-replaced the glass lid and drove thin wedges of lead into the spaces around the edge to hold it fast. Octavian turned away, grinning at Khamun. At the same time, he put something in a pocket inside his cloak.
"My lord?" ventured one of the priests, "would you like to look upon the mausoleum of the Ptolemies?"
Octavian laughed at the man, now seemingly in great good humor. "I came to see a king, not a row of corpses!"
With that, Octavian strode out of the tomb, with his legionaries and aides in a crowd around him, leaving the priest sullen and red with anger.
"Now, Khamun, where have you hidden the boy, Caesarion? I would like to see him for myself." Octavian slouched in a field chair in his great tent outside the city. Full darkness had come, revealing a vast wash of stars girdling the heavens. All around the young Roman, his Legions were bedding down for the night, here on the plain just east of Alexandria. In the gloom, their lanterns and torches made a bright orchard along the banks of a canal. "Her children by Antony I have already looked upon-charming and well-featured, but useless-where is Caesar's child?"
The old Egyptian stood at the door of the tent, staring out into the darkness. Now he turned, long wrinkled face filling with despair. "Gone, my lord. None can say where, and I have cast about in my thought, seeking to gain this knowledge. The boy has vanished. Some… some say he has fled south, to Axum or the dark kingdoms at the source of the Nile…"
Octavian stood abruptly, his usually calm face twisted in anger. "You purchased your child's life and freedom, master Khamun, with promises of power over Egypt and Rome alike! Now, what do I have? Nothing! You are a weak tool, a chisel that slips too many times from the cutting groove. Why should I keep you, when you fail so often? Do I mistake the passage of events? Each thing I desired, I have taken myself."