The Fortune Teller(17)

Bren leaned over and gave her a kiss she could barely feel; her thoughts were too scattered. She’d have to give up her beloved apartment in Brooklyn Heights for Bren’s condo in Williamsburg, which had twice the space. But she could live with carpet instead of parquet floors. Why was the thought even in her mind?

“We can start tonight and move some stuff over the weekend,” he said.

Tonight? Her heart sank. Already he was moving too fast. She tried to backpedal without seeming too obvious. She needed more time.

“I’d love to,” she said, “but there’s a manuscript I need to finish translating, and I’m so tired from the trip.” In other words, they were not spending the night together.

His face fell in disappointment “Right. Of course.”

He’d agreed, but she could see the hurt in his eyes. She had chosen work over him, again.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she promised as the waiter arrived with their entrées. “Let me just deal with this account.” And Theo … he would be in New York next month for the auction.

At some point she was going to have to face the thoughts about Theo running rampant in her mind. Deep in her bones, she knew they had started something that day in the gallery that was far from finished.





Message to VS—

Back in Brooklyn

Reply from VS—

Maintain surveillance. Wait for instruction.





I read Ariston’s translation of the Oracle’s scroll, and a shiver ran up my body. Wadjet had foreseen that her treasured box would be forgotten in a cavern of our library. She had asked me—by name—to make sure her symbols survived time. She tasked me with many things I had no idea how to accomplish.

At the time I didn’t know what to think, being singled out by a voice from a world that had long ago faded away. Not only had Wadjet foreseen that I would find her treasured box, she said I was born with the ability to divine the future. Her symbols, she said, were mine to master. The scroll explained, in detail, the meaning of each divinity symbol—how they worked together to form the geometry of life, and how within that ever-changing geometry, I could discern the answer to any question.

To appease my doubt, I spent untold hours in the library, researching divination in earnest. I read the stories written by famous oracles and seers who had attempted to bridge the barrier between humanity and the heavens. I found the seers of the past to be the most powerful.

In the long-ago world, seers believed divination to be the mother of all knowledge, the soul of philosophy, and the heart of religion. Their mysteries had been preserved in the library’s caverns, wisdom from the ancients who knew how to access the primordial knowledge that surrounds us.

I read countless scrolls that detailed how to interpret dreams, how to read birds’ signs in the sky. I read about powerful seers who had gone to war with their generals and foretold the future of battles before a single sword was ever wielded. I read lists of omens and portents. I learned about the differences between soothsayers—those who made predictions—and oracles, those who spoke from altered states of mind, such as the Pythia at Delphi. I studied accounts from seers who could interpret nature, who could read the messages hidden in a crash of thunder or a bolt of lightning, and the ones who were gifted with prophetic knowledge—the most rare seers of all.

As I read I became even more unsure of where I belonged. Wadjet believed I had the sight. She had written to me directly, as a teacher would a student. But how could I be a seer? Seers were from the families of wealthy politicians and were apprenticed at a young age to those who were already masters. I did not have the charisma or ambition to travel from city to city, gaining followers and prominence. I was just a girl who had found an ancient set of symbols.

If I were truly to become the seer that Wadjet had portended, then I needed to know more. So I began to spend all my time in the lower galleries, learning everything I could from seers whose accounts stretched far back into the shadows of time.

As I put myself through the rigors of my private studies, I failed to notice Egypt was in the midst of even greater turmoil. Perhaps if I had, I could have foreseen the tragedy that was to come.

*

When Cleopatra’s father, Ptolemy XII, died, Cleopatra took control of the throne and married her ten-year-old brother, Ptolemy XIII. They were husband and wife in name only, so they could rule together.

Overnight she transformed into the goddess Isis herself. No longer did she wear simple gowns and roam the library freely with an open scroll in hand, as she had in childhood. Instead she dressed as if she were part of a pageant that never ended. She adorned her body with ornate jewels, armbands, and necklaces. Even her wigs were works of art.

At my family’s dinner table I learned about the gossip—the struggle for power between sister and brother, the manipulations of the royal ministers, who were determined that Cleopatra remain only a figurehead. But Cleopatra was too strong-willed, too smart, to let that happen. She could debate a man four times her age and win.

Cleopatra fled Egypt for Syria to escape the plotting of her ministers. Her plight and the people’s outrage over her exile caught Rome’s eye.

The Ptolemy who had ruled before Cleopatra’s father officially bequeathed Egypt to Rome in his will. But instead of assuming control, Rome had allowed the Ptolemies to continue their reign under its watchful eye: the empire was too busy with problems of its own. When Caesar arrived in Alexandria to assess the situation, Cleopatra seized the opportunity and snuck back into the city to plead her case. Caesar had the power to decide the fate of her country.