The Book of Julius Caesar
Dedication
The Book of Julius Caesar is dedicated to Christina Iren Horvath, 1965–2021 AD. She encouraged everyone around her—especially her family—to learn, to grow, and to improve their lives. She had a deep passion for history, particularly the world of antiquity.In this book, The Anomaly travels back through time to thread the curse of Akhu‑Sheut into the hidden cracks of history. The Book of Julius Caesar honors historical figures as they were described by their contemporary historians.As October 2026 AD sets its stage to begin, I dedicate this work to you, Christina.
Happy birthday.
Pharsalus
In 48 BC, Rome was mired in civil war. Julius Caesar had crushed Pompey the Great at Pharsalus.
“Any news of Pompey?” Caesar asked Mark Antony as he entered the tent, walking in the direction of an aquamanile.
“We haven’t found his body,” Antony replied while a slave tipped a bronze ewer over his hands, washing the blood and dirt into the basin below. “Some of his officers claim they saw him slip out of camp under cover of night. Like a thief.”
“As long as he lives, he is a danger to me. We must find him. And if he is alive…” Caesar paused. He knew Antony well — loyal, competent, but no political strategist. “…I suspect he isn’t dead. We need him alive, Antony.”
“I’ll organize the pursuit myself, and when I find him—”
“You will do no such thing,” Caesar cut in. Antony froze, hand outstretched.
“Don’t you trust me to bring him back alive?”
“I need you in Rome.” Antony lowered his arm, stunned. “It is for the good of the Republic.”
“The Republic?” Antony scoffed. “The Republic is dead. With Pompey defeated, you could proclaim yourself king.”
“I will never be king. And you will obey my orders.” Antony clenched his jaw. He had never disobeyed Caesar — and he wasn’t about to start now.
“I don’t see the reason for my return. I’m needed here. We aren’t finished.”
“You will march to Rome with the bulk of our forces and deliver the news of our victory to the Senate.”
Antony sat heavily on a field chair, staring at Caesar. Silence settled between them. His hand tightened around the grip of his sword, then released it. He raised his hand in a slow, circular gesture.
“Of course… and you’ll be named dictator,” he muttered. “But that requires a Magister Equitum. Me.”
Caesar remained expressionless, his gaze drifting toward the tent's opening. Outside, the camp boiled with activity. Men marching, cavalry moving, standards snapping in the breeze.
“Exactly,” he said. “You will leave at once. I’ll write a letter to Publius Servilius; he will know what to do. You will deliver it.”
“I shall ride upon the winds of Mercury,” Antony said with a bow and a roguish smile.
A few days later, Caesar learned from his scouts that Pompey had fled Greece and was seeking refuge in Egypt after a brief stay in Amphipolis.
“When we reach Alexandria, we shall dock at the royal wharves.” Caesar issued his orders to a group of camp prefects and chief centurions — men who had served under him since long before the Gallic campaign.
“Sir, we could be walking into a trap.” Legate Tiberius Lucretius Vespillo was one of Caesar’s most formidable commanders, a man of unquestionable loyalty. He had served under Mark Antony, but Caesar kept him close as a lucky charm; he had never lost a battle.
“We shall know before we dock,” Caesar replied. He was unsure of the Egyptians’ intentions; they owed favors to Pompey the Great. “We will be ready to counterattack if their ships pose a threat — something we shall discover the moment we enter Alexandria.”
“Sir, perhaps you should remain outside, waiting for us to secure the harbor.”
“That would leave us vulnerable if the boy‑king’s generals have concealed their ships along the coast — especially behind the island of Pharos. We do not have a large force.” Then, with a majestic air, he added, “We shall not provoke them, but our presence must be unmistakable. We will tolerate no hostile action against us.”
The tent fell silent. This was the finest small force ever to serve under Julius Caesar.
“Our intent is to capture Pompey… alive!”
With a contingent of four thousand men, Julius Caesar set sail for Egypt.
Pompey
A military commander walked urgently through the wide corridors of the Royal Palace in Alexandria. He sped by the courtyard, scanning quickly, and continued. He stopped at the entrance to the Royal Gardens, searching from one side to the other. Between the exotic plants sat the young King Ptolemy XIII.
"Beautifully played, Sire!" Ptolemy's tutor complimented the young king with adulation. The boy lowered the pipes with a joyous smile.
"Sire!"
"Archillas!" Ptolemy snapped, lowering the pipes. "Can you see I am busy? Are you blind?"
"Forgive me, Sire," said Archillas with reverence. “A Rhodian fleet has been sighted approaching Alexandria. They are flying Roman banners.”
He spoke while looking at the king, then bowed his head slightly to make eye contact with Pothinus.
“Rhodian ships! I want to see them!” Ptolemy exclaimed, leaping from his chair and running toward the garden’s exit.
“Sire! Sire! It could be Julius Caesar, and you must prepare yourself for such a guest,” Pothinus called out.
Ptolemy stopped, turned sharply, and addressed his advisor.
“I am king, and I do as I please. Am I the king, or are you the king?”
“You are, Sire… of course,” Pothinus replied in a condescending tone. “But you must prepare for protocol — and surprise Caesar.” He added the last words with a thin smile.
"Centurion Rufus!" ordered Tiberius Lucretius Vespillo.
"Sir!"
"Take a cohort from the Tenth; remain at the docks and guard the ships."
"It shall be done, sir!" replied Rufus.
"With your life, Rufus!"
"Sir!" Rufus saluted and departed.
"Tiberius, the cavalry must not be mounted; they would be exposed." Tiberius nodded. "Bring Asturco." And after a brief pause, he added, "I shall lead the way."
"That is too dangerous, Caesar! You should go on foot beside your horse, behind the standard." Tiberius objected.
"I am the standard, Tiberius," said Caesar calmly as his slave, Faberius, put the finishing touches on his armor. "If I am wrong, we shall all be dead anyway within the hour."
"Take us out," ordered Julius Caesar. Alexandria lay before him.
"Centurion Marcellus!" ordered Tiberius.
Caesar heard only gulls and water against the hulls. No merchants. No shouting from the docks. Alexandria seemed to be holding its breath.
"Sir!"
"Ready the men, we march!"
After a brief moment, Centurion Marcellus issued orders to the troops while Caesar mounted his horse, Asturco. “Attention to the front!”
Julius Caesar slowly advanced to the vanguard. The legionaries were lined up on either side, wearing their helmets and holding their red shields and javelins aloft. Asturco knew his position; he pawed the ground, awaiting his commander.
Caesar looked up; the sky was clear. From his vantage point, he could hear the whistling of the wind. He raised his right hand and left it there for a moment. Centurion Marcellus kept his sight fixed on it. Then Caesar lowered it, pointing with his index finger.
"March!" shouted Marcellus.
The troops began to march forward, like a dangerous heartbeat. The cadence of their movement was perfectly timed by the tubas and horns.
At the head of the column, Caesar rode without speaking, his gaze fixed on the Royal Palace of Alexandria. When they drew close, the great gates groaned open, revealing an Egyptian ceremonial guard already arranged in two perfect lines.
“Tiberius.” Said Caesar leaning over to Tiberius.
“Caesar.”
“I enter with a centuria. Stay at my side.”
“Yes, Caesar.”
“The rest of the legion holds position outside. Seal every access point. No one enters. No one leaves.”
He gave the orders from horseback without slowing. Dust rose around him as the chosen centuria formed up, shields flashing in the sun. His twelve lictors closed around him, fasces upright.
Caesar rode through the gates and dismounted his horse in the middle of the courtyard. A legionarius whisked Asturco aside, and Caesar removed his helmet. Next to him stood Tiberius. The two men stood in front of the palace’s doors, wide open. Behind them, the lictors stood in perfect formation.
“Where is Pompey?” Caesar could not prevent the question. “He is protected here.” He looked into the depths of the corridor behind the doors, hoping to see the silhouette of his most formidable foe, but he saw only ceremonial guards, armed, standing against the walls.
Caesar tightened his grip on his sword. Tiberius noticed — “This could get interesting! Here we go!” he thought, and the entire Roman column entered the palace. “Caesar, I hope you know what you are doing,” Tiberius wondered, as his eyes scanned every Egyptian guard, looking for a movement — “Today is as good a day to die as any other day!” was his last thought when the column stopped in a spacious royal lounge.
“Caesar, Egypt welcomes you!” Pothinus, standing next to Ptolemy XIII, exclaimed with a smile. Caesar did not move a muscle as his eyes scanned his surroundings — “Pompey, come out!” he thought.
Silence settled; no one moved until Lictor Proximus stepped aside and announced, with a thunderous voice:
“Before you is Julius Caesar, Pontifex Maximus, Imperator, Tribunica Potestas, and Consul of Rome.”
The last syllable remained hanging in the air, traveling through the silence of the palace.
“Congratulations on your appointment, Your Majesty…” And moving his head from side to side, Caesar added, “I do not see Queen Cleopatra. Where is she?” But he was really looking for Pompey.
“She is a traitor!” Ptolemy interrupted.
“Sire…” interjected Pothinus, and looking in Caesar’s direction he added, “She is not here… she went south… and wants to start a civil war of her own.”
Just as Caesar was preparing to speak, Pothinus interrupted.
"Caesar, Egypt has a gift for you," he said, turning and gesturing to one of his aides.
Caesar’s brow instantly furrowed as he fixed his gaze on a man advancing from the back of the royal hall, carrying an object wrapped in white Egyptian linen. Tiberius continued to scan the room for any sign until his eyes settled on Achillas, who had his hand on his sword hilt; Tiberius gripped his own weapon, fixing his eyes on the Egyptian general.
The man stopped before Caesar and placed the wrapped object at his feet. Then, he uncovered it and stepped back, bowing low. It was the head of Pompey.
Caesar gasped and stood motionless for a moment, staring at Pompey’s head; he closed his eyes, turned his face away, wheeled around, and strode out of the hall, followed by his lictors.
"Marcellus," Tiberius said, pointing to Pompey’s head. Marcellus knelt before it, looked at it for a moment, then wrapped it in his woolen cloak and held it close to his chest. The entire Roman force departed as quickly as they had arrived.
"What happened?" Ptolemy broke the silence. "They were enemies! What happened?"
"Sire!" Pothinus interjected, gesturing for the young king to remain silent.
"We made a mistake," Achillas said to Pothinus.
"Leave the palace at once and muster the army... recruit slaves if necessary," Pothinus ordered, looking worried.
"Are you going to summon the Order of Ra?" Achillas asked.
"No! Not yet. We cannot unleash that power on a whim... He has only one legion; he is just a man — we can defeat him!"
The Father-Loving Goddess
Pothinus
"Servilius, Julius Caesar summons you for a shave. He complains that last time you didn’t use enough oil," said Faberius.
"Master, my flask of Roman oil is running very low…"
"Then go to the kitchen, tonsor!" Faberius gestured impatiently. "Caesar uses their oil for his hands, and he likes it. Go. Quickly, slave!"
Servilius left the royal quarters where Caesar’s forces were lodged. He walked through wide corridors lined with exotic plants. In a bright courtyard, an Egyptian slave knelt with his face buried in his hands; blood dripped between his fingers.
Servilius meant to pass by, but the slave heard his steps and lifted his face — a young man, bleeding heavily from nose and mouth. Their eyes met; something in the boy’s gaze stopped him.
"What happened to you?"
"The eunuch… he struck me."
"By Zeus! For what?"
The young man wiped blood from his face with trembling hands.
"Ptolemy sent me to summon him. When I reached his chambers, he was speaking with Achillas, so I waited… Oh, my teeth… they ache terribly."
Servilius opened his pouch. "Here. Chew these herbs — gently."
"Caesar's man, no! I should not speak to you. The eunuch forbids it!"
Servilius seized his arm and pulled him behind tall plants.
"This will ease the pain. Do not chew too much, or it will make you sleep." The slave put a small amount in his mouth, closed his eyes, and with effort swirled the herbs, swallowing the bitter juices with difficulty.
"Better?"
"Yes… less pain."
"Now — what did you hear?" The young man trembled.
"Caesar's man, he will kill me."
"Caesar remembers favors. You might end up serving Cleopatra herself. Speak."
The slave swallowed hard.
"Pothinus ordered Achillas to raise the army."
"He beat you for that?" The Egyptian young man nodded, then lowered his head, avoiding eye contact with Servilius. "You heard something else... something about Caesar and his men?"
The Egyptian nodded again and raised his head to meet Servilius’ gaze.
"Pothinus ordered Achillas to block the canal to the palace… and they mean to poison the well."
Servilius inhaled sharply. "By Zeus…"
"I must go."
The slave vanished into the corridors. Servilius waited, then continued toward the kitchen.
"Who goes there? Halt!"
He turned. Pothinus stood before him.
"You are one of Caesar’s slaves. Why are you on this side of the palace?"
"I am fetching oil from the kitchen…"
"In the future," Pothinus said sharply, "you will speak to my attendant. You are not to leave the Roman quarter."
"Sire… Excellency…" Servilius met his gaze. "I obey only Caesar’s orders."
Pothinus’ eyes narrowed. "Insolent creature. I could have you thrown into the Nile."
Servilius bowed. "Caesar would not be pleased. I am his barber."
Pothinus clicked his tongue in irritation. "Then go. Do not keep your master waiting."
Servilius bowed again and continued on his way.
"Servilius! I sent for you; where have you been? I hope there is no bloodshed this time!" Caesar exclaimed.
"Caesar, forgive me; I went to the kitchen to fetch oil," Servilius said, setting down on a table next to Caesar a sharp blade, a flask of oil, and a cloth of pure white Egyptian linen. As he began applying the oil to Caesar’s face, Servilius spoke in a very low voice, almost whispering into his master’s ear:
"Caesar..."
Caesar’s expression lit up with restrained curiosity as he turned his head slightly toward his barber. He narrowed his eyes as Servilius whispered. When Servilius finished his report, Caesar sprang from his chair, wiping the oil from his face.
"Go now... Tiberius!"
The marble walls of the banquet hall gleamed amidst the magnificent spectacle celebrating the reunification of Queen Cleopatra and King Ptolemy XIII as co-rulers of the Egyptian throne. Hundreds of slaves continued to serve delicacies worthy of the occasion while musicians and dancers performed in the incense-filled air.
"Does the food please you, Caesar?" asked Pothinus, reclining on a couch opposite Caesar's.
"Very much so! You have been a splendid host. I wonder what else the night holds in store for us. Perhaps you could tell me, Pothinus — why has the palace supplied spoiled grain to my soldiers?"
"Caesar, we ought not to discuss such matters in public, especially while celebrating an occasion so glorious for Egypt."
"Oh! We shall speak of far greater problems soon enough! Achillas, could you assign some of your men to patrol alongside ours? It would provide a morale boost. It would show the Alexandrians that we are friends, not enemies; don’t you think?"
From his couch, looking past Caesar, General Achillas noticed unusual troop movement near the banquet hall.
"Caesar, if you'll excuse me... nature calls," the general said as he rose from the couch and left the hall. Caesar watched him go. Once the general had left the room, Caesar signaled to Centurion Marcellus, who was standing guard beside him, and he too departed. Moments later, Marcellus returned.
"Caesar, General Achillas is nowhere to be found. He has vanished."
"Old fox!" Caesar muttered under his breath. "Have the men move in; we’re taking the hall right now!"
Marcellus nodded once and departed with purpose. Moments later, legionaries entered the banquet hall from all entrances, overpowering ceremonial guards.
"What is the meaning of this?" Pothinus snapped in protest, getting up from his couch. "This is a ceremonial dinner!"
Musicians and dancers halted their performances and moved to the side. A murmur ran through the hall, and visitors and dignitaries sat upright. King Ptolemy stood up, legs and arms opened, looking in all directions with his mouth wide open in astonishment.
"Achillas! Guards!" managed to say the young monarch.
"Little brother." Cleopatra spoke to him in a witty tone. "Continue your dinner... Romans are here to protect us. Have no fear."
As Ptolemy attempted to leave, two legionaries stood behind him.
"Sire, sit down and remain calm."
"See? Nothing to worry about. We have not had the best part of our dinner yet." Cleopatra reassured him with a wide smile, gesturing with her hands.
"This is outrageous! A guest of the palace has never performed such desecration... in the history of Egypt," Pothinus protested strongly.
"You are plotting against your Queen for your own benefit!" Caesar interrupted him with vigor.
"Me? What is this?" Pothinus interjected, and with an arrogant tone added, "Is this a trial?"
"You are behind the Alexandrian revolt which has cost Roman lives!"
Pothinus's face went pale as two legionaries moved behind him.
"You have plotted with Achillas to dam the Royal Channel to the palace, trapping us, and to poison our water well to murder us all. Do you deny it?"
"Caesar..." Pothinus opened his eyes wide in horror, glancing over his shoulders. The two soldiers looking at him frowned. His tone subdued, he moved his trembling hands in front of him in an imploring posture.
"Do you deny it?"
Caesar spoke in an accusatory, thunderous voice. The legionaries pushed down on Pothinus’ shoulders, forcing him to return to his couch with violence.
"Caesar... you are mistaken... you have been misinformed..." said Pothinus after hitting his couch. "I can arrange the payment of Ptolemy's debt... this tings require time... I can arrange that immediately!"
"It is a little late for that, old asp!" Shouted Cleopatra from her throne.
Caesar stood up from his couch.
"King Ptolemy and the princesses will remain in their chambers, under my protection, and are not to leave their confined areas without my permission. Queen Cleopatra will remain by my side." Looking around the hall he added, "Dignitaries and guests are to leave the palace at once... or stay and suffer the consequences of what you are about to witness; which you select will not change the outcome."
Late that night, the head of the eunuch Pothinus was placed on a spike on display in front of the Royal Palace for all to see.
Milites Semper
On the night of the fifth day before the Ides of December, the sky over Alexandria was relatively clear. A warm land breeze slipped through the gaps between buildings, winding its way along the narrow streets where the Alexandrians had erected high barricades to halt the advance of Julius Caesar’s soldiers.
"I demand my release!" shouted the young King Ptolemy XIII, held captive in a section of the Royal Palace controlled by Caesar and his troops.
In a fit of rage, the young monarch tried to leave the room where he was confined alongside his closest advisors. Four heavily armed legionaries blocked his path; they drew their gladii just far enough to reveal the blades before sheathing them again with a sharp, metallic snap.
"You must understand—we need to negotiate with Caesar. This situation is untenable," an advisor attempted to reason with the captain of the guard.
"Sire, please, step back. I have orders to use force if necessary," the captain responded with authority.
"Little brother..." A familiar voice rang out from behind the line of legionaries. Ptolemy stepped forward and stopped behind his advisor. Amidst the soldiers, he made out the face of his older sister, Cleopatra.
"Cleopatra, you are a traitor and ought to be executed!" Ptolemy exclaimed from his protected position.
"Young Sire..." an advisor standing directly behind Ptolemy interjected in a persuasive tone. "Perhaps we should ask Her Highness the meaning of all this," he added, gesturing with his hand to emphasize his words.
"You shall be executed! The curse of Akhu-Sheut will fall upon you!" the young king shouted in anger, pointing an accusing finger at Cleopatra. A silence let the words sink in.
"What is he talking about?" Cleopatra asked, turning this time to the advisor standing on the other side of the line of legionaries, facing her.
"Your Highness..." the advisor replied hesitantly, moving his head in frustration; it was not up to him to say more.
"Oh, yes! You will suffer, Cleopatra!"
"Sire," the advisor cut in, looking at Ptolemy as he realized the information might be of strategic importance to Caesar. "Our goal now should be to negotiate your release as soon as possible... and perhaps we could put an end to this conflict."
"I won't allow it! What are you talking about? What is this curse of Akhu-Sheut? Tell me, or I’ll tear the answer out of you! I swear it!" Cleopatra demanded.
"Your Highness, these are matters of state," the advisor said in a tone intended to close the subject.
"You are my prisoner; Caesar listens to me..."
"Well, Caesar's prisoner," the advisor clarified.
Without replying, Cleopatra turned on her heels, walking to the opposite side of the Royal Quarters where Julius Caesar had his commanding post.
"Caesar, the tide has changed and the winds are favorable."
"Tiberius, assemble a small force, a contubernium of your most capable men... I cannot spare more men..."
"Caesar!" Cleopatra interrupted as she entered the room. "Ptolemy and his advisors..."
"Your Highness, I cannot attend to your family quarrel right now." Caesar exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across his face. He saw the confusion in her eyes and dismissed it. He stood between the wall and the gladius himself.
"But my brother is threatening me with... something his advisor called a secret of state..." Cleopatra insisted.
"Your Highness, you and your brother are meant to rule together. That is in your father's testamentum, and Rome is appointed as the guarantor. I will see to that."
"But Caesar..."
"Take the Queen to her royal quarters," Caesar ordered a legionary standing against the wall, "and make sure she stays there." Looking at Cleopatra, he added, "I will visit the Queen and talk to her after I am finished here."
"Caesar." The legionary saluted and proceeded to execute his order, escorting Cleopatra out of the area.
"I will join the men to see this opus to its end," Tiberius spoke as soon as the men were alone.
"That would be unwise, considering our position. I need you more as a commander than a dead hero... but... if you must. Depart at once."
"Caesar." Tiberius Lucretius Vespillo saluted and departed.
"Marcelus, gather your men," commanded Tiberius.
"Men." Tiberius made eye contact with each and every man of the contubernium. "We are going on a little destructive expedition."
"About time!" some of the men shouted with enthusiasm.
"We are going to set the world on fire. The problem is that where we are going is heavily protected." Tiberius paused to allow his words to sink in. "I will go with you... we are going to burn Ptolemy's ships; all of them."
"Who else is coming?" one of the men asked.
"It is only us." The men nodded in silence.
"We cannot wear armor. We go light—pugios only. It will get close." The men looked at each other; some of them tested their blades with their thumb, time seemed to slow to a single breath; a storm was coming.
"Two in the vanguard. Two with the clay pots. Two fuel men behind them. Marcelus and his second take the rear. I lead."
"Rotation?" asked Marcelus.
"Every centum passes... let's get ready."
"Armor off, pugios only… perfect. I always wanted to die underdressed!"
They laughed heartily.
The eight men gathered in the shadows of the lower colonnade, their faces already streaked with lamp-soot and mud.
"We move like dockworkers, not legionaries. If we're caught by Ptolemy's guards, we aren't Roman—we're ghosts."
A grim, silent resolve passed through the small circle. They didn't need a cohort. Eight men, eight daggers, and a city stacked like kindling. They felt confident; a high-ranking officer was sharing their destiny in a dangerous sortie.
"Legionarius semper!" said Tiberius, facing the men.
"Victoria aut mors!" they replied instantly.
"Legionaries!" The voice came from a balcony where Caesar stood. They faced him in silence. Caesar raised his right hand and lowered it, giving the order. The men vanished into the night. Caesar remained motionless, looking at the place where the men once stood.
Caesar stayed on the balcony, looking at the city below. The pupils of his eyes dilated, like those of a nocturnal eagle trying to detect any change in the night. His ears sharpened, allowing him to distinguish between the bark of a dog and the cry of a wounded soul. From his vantage point he could see as far as the entrance of the harbor. The lighthouse was dark, but its silhouette was unmistakable. Far to the right, he could see the dome of the library—majestic, the crown of the city. Then faintly, very faintly, his eyes detected a source of light. Seconds later the illumination became evident, drawing the contours of adjacent buildings. Moments later a gigantic inferno engulfed the Royal Docks. Caesar let a gasp out, his heart accelerated, pounding high-pressure blood through every vein and artery.
Estrella Cadens caught his attention near the entrance of the harbor. The Roman messenger warship had set sail to Rhodes. Help would arrive soon.
"Milites!" Caesar exclaimed.
Phibis
“General, we are taking heavy casualties at the Heptastadion causeway… we are holding, but Caesar is making progress…”
Hegemon Horos commanded the defense forces protecting the southern bridge of the Heptastadion.
“We cannot lose the bridge,” Ganymedes responded. He knew that losing this position would give Caesar a direct path to Pharos Island. Turning to the High Priest of the Order of Ra, he asked:
“Are the Servants ready? Are they here?”
“Deliverers!” shouted the High Priest, projecting his voice from the darkest depth of his lungs.
“Deliverers!” he cried again, his voice striking every wall of the Royal Palace, bouncing from ceiling to floor, creating a haunting echo.
The summons produced four Deliverers. They stood facing the High Priest. One of them was Phibis.
Phibis had served the Order of Ra for as long as he could remember. A devastating drought had impoverished his family; to save his life, he had been given to the temple, where he would serve the Order for the rest of his days.
Phibis and his three companions had their bodies covered in thick black lard, creating a stark contrast with the whites of their eyes. A metallic artifact resembling a goat’s head—with curved horns and gold leaf—covered their heads. They had practiced the ritual many times before.
“Do they have names?” the general asked, studying them, trying to understand.
“No,” answered the High Priest. “They are servants of Ra. They are eternal.”
“Are they loyal? Will they fulfill their destiny?”
A thought crossed Phibis’s mind:
I have a name. My father named me Phibis, as his father did before him. My grandfather served in your grandfather’s army; he told us the stories. He was brave—I saw his sword. My family helped build the channels. Water is Egypt.
He thought of speaking, but the last time he spoke out of turn, the High Priest had broken two of his teeth. He remained silent. He felt the moisture on his palms.
“They are loyal to Ra… through me,” said the High Priest. “They answer to no one else.”
A messenger arrived directly from the battlefield. From his armor, Ganymedes could see he came from the garrison posted on Pharos Island.
“Sir, message,” the messenger said, handing over a tattered papyrus with dark stains blotting the corners. Ganymedes read it, then looked at the High Priest and spoke urgently:
“We need them now.”
“Listen to my voice,” the High Priest commanded the Deliverers.
“By the authority of the gods, given to me by the earth we stand on, carry out the work of Ra swiftly. You are guaranteed a direct path to the afterlife.”
Phibis had heard this proclamation many times, but this time the High Priest’s voice carried finality. He did not know exactly what that meant, but the words struck him.
A soldier led Phibis to the causeway, where a familiar vase waited. He knew he had to grip the tail of the Golden Cobra wrapped around the container, holding a gold disk in its mouth.
What Phibis saw terrified him: men crying in pain, projectiles and arrows flying in all directions. The smell of blood and burned flesh was new to him, sending chills from his cheeks down through his body in intermittent quivers to the soles of his feet. He grabbed the vase, held it tight to his chest, and ran toward the point the soldier had indicated. The clanging of swords echoed violently in his ears. He ran as fast as he could until he found himself in the midst of the fighting.
Then the horn blew — unmistakable. It was time to stop. He felt invisible, standing in the center of the chaos. He could smell the men, their sweat and breaths. The second horn sounded. Phibis gripped the tail of the snake.
In previous rituals, gripping the snake opened compartments; then he would raise the vase to the heavens, and Ra would know what to do next.
But this time was different.
The wind carried black earth, and from the openings of the vase a blue glowing light shone in all directions. It burned his arms and face. He wanted to say, “Ra, Aten‑Khem is called in your name — release the Akhu‑Sheut,” but he could not. His throat produced blaring, unrecognizable sounds. He wanted to see, but he could not. He wanted to scream, but he could not. In the last gasp of life, he summoned his strength with all his might and managed to shout:
“WHY?”
Ra could not hear him. Scores of terrorized men drowned out his voice.
Licentia Poëtica Purissima
It is the year 46 BC and Caesar, back in Rome, has been appointed by the senate of the people Dictator Per Decem Annos. Rome had rewarded its most cherished son after his victories.
"Oh, Aulus Hirtius, how good of you to come!" Julius Caesar opened his arms with enthusiasm to welcome his old army friend and personal historian.
"It is great to be here, Caesar!"
"And you brought Hirtia with you! She is so beautiful! Let me look at both of you!" He contemplated them in awe for a moment; then shaking his head he added — "No, no... she is too beautiful to be wasted... we will find her a husband!"
Hirtia's face turned red like fire, and with a shy smile she looked away, hiding her emotions.
"Oh, what am I doing! You are like family to me..." and with a gentle reverence he spoke to Hirtia.
"Hirtia, darling, go to the gardens and join Pompeia, there are wonderful refreshments... please, please, please... enjoy yourself... men’s talk is boring, eh?" And turning to Hirtius he asked with a smile:
"How was your trip, old friend?"
"Very pleasant. The sea was perfect and we had favorable winds the entire time!"
"I am so glad!" he replied with a smile.
"Caesar... if I may ask..." Hirtius made a pause, looked at the ground he was standing on, and raised his head slowly to meet Caesar’s eyes.
"...if I did not know you well, I would think you want something. What it is, I do not know. Why am I here, in Baiae, so far from Rome? Are you dissatisfied with my work?"
"Not at all!"
Caesar interjected, and placing his right hand on Hirtius’s left shoulder he added — "Go, refresh yourself and we'll talk after dinner. Evenings in the villa are a gift."
Dinner at the villa had been exquisite, very different from the field dinners the men had during their campaigning days. One of Caesar’s slaves, a Greek, had recited the poems of the Seikilos Epitaph, giving the evening a relaxed atmosphere.
After the dinner Pompeia and Hirtia reclined on a couch for a game of Ludus Duodecim Scriptorum. Pompeia could not avoid looking at Hirtia with a motherly predisposition.
Caesar and Hirtius retired to the garden followed by Caesar's personal assistant and slave Faberius.
"Faberius, you may leave us now. We are not to be disturbed." Caesar spoke to Faberius kindly; he had been in his service for many years.
"Caesar." Said Faberius, and with a bow of the head, turned on his heels and left the men to take position on two comfortable chairs on an spacious terrace.
The scene seemed previously arranged, staged, a thought that added to Hirtius’s anxiety — "Why am I here?"
"What a wonderful evening!" Caesar exclaimed as he reclined into the comfort of his chair.
"Caesar..."
"Ad rem sine mora!" Caesar interrupted as Hirtius was about to speak. "I read your account of the Egyptian campaign. Very impressive, but..."
Hirtius leaned over and listened attentively.
"The Battle for Pharos Island, and the adjacent Heptastadion mole, needs molding..."
"The battle was documented with witnesses’ accounts, legionary reports, and you as well. Your swim to the warship was recounted by a great many Romans." Hirtius made his case.
"Yes, I agree, but the story also mentions inexplicable passages..."
Hirtius felt an uneasy worry. He felt he needed to wash his face, drink clean water, but he remained seated; motionless.
"You are referring to the unnatural accounts... the inexplicable..." he finally spoke, and added — "Witnesses speak of what they saw."
"No," Caesar said softly. "They speak of what they think they saw. Rome will speak of what is history."
Caesar was looking at him, not giving anything away; his face remained expressionless.
"Sir… if we omit the account of what took place on the Heptastadion causeway, the gaps will be obvious. Historians will ask questions..."
"We will give them answers." interjected Caesar, looking into his eyes.
"Sir... facts are facts. Here my skin can feel a breeze..." said Hirtius, moving his arms in circles.
"I call that... a strong wind..." Caesar corrected Hirtius. He spoke as a teacher corrects an advanced student.
Hirtius turned his head towards the sea. The sea was in the distance, illuminated by the reflection of a luna dimidiata. It was beautifully silver, but he could not enjoy it, and spoke as a smart student.
"...the harbor was experiencing strong currents..." Caesar’s face brightened, and a smile started to draw on his lips. Hirtius continued.
"The marines commanding the ships were inexperienced and collided with each other. Oars shattered to pieces... this created panic and legionaries and centurions, fearing they were going to be moored, jumped anxiously to the ships, creating an imbalance... the ships capsized..."
"And I had to jump into the water and swim to save my own life..." Caesar interrupted, his face featuring a fully developed smile. He continued:
"I got onboard a passing Roman warship and resumed command of the battle."
"...and the unnatural?" asked Hirtius.
"What unnatural? We have licentia poëtica."
The men remained silent. The warm land breeze weaved through the tree branches like invisible snakes moving in their habitat, causing the leaves to tremble softly. The sound had a calming effect on Hirtius. He nodded once.
"Excellent!" exclaimed Caesar — "I have written those details and will give you the book for you to curate, but we have covered the main points."
"Many legionaries and centurions remember the causeway... retreat... differently."
"We can change their memories"
"How?"
"I have thought if that." Caesar spoke cleverly. "I have written a play to be performed by street actors. Suetonius Oppiulatis owns a troupe. The play begins next week."
"Who is telling... this story, if I may ask."
"It will be based on anonymous accounts. It is perfect." The face of Caesar looked bright. This teeth shown under the light of the moon.
Hirtius had felt this feeling before, he learned to hide his emotions, managing to return Caesar’s smile back in agreement.
Time passed gently. The men remained seated, their minds immersed in their memories.
"What a wonderful evening, eh?" Said Caesar breaking the spell.
"It is." Hirtius was relaxed now. He had with him Caesar’s account summary which he would curate on his arrival to Rome.
"Hirtius, we are not soldiers anymore... at least for now. I am glad the civil war has concluded. There will be more history to write, but are you planning to settle down somewhere?"
Julius Caesar spoke casually; the matter had been solved, but in his mind, the deal needed a clear conclusion. After a pause, he continued:
"Gaius Scribonius Curio is a terrible gambler and has many debts..."
Hirtius looked at him, eyes opened wide.
"Do you think I do not know? Ha! He has to sell his farm villa." Caesar reclined on his chair. "I am looking at the next owner of a very profitable land!" he added with finality in his words.
"I could not afford it, I would be in debt myself..."
"Nonsense, I will lend you the money myself!" Caesar spoke, moving his right arm in a give‑away gesture. "You can pay me back when you can; I could give you the money but you would not accept!"
"Caesar!"
"Done! There is good money in corn, you know!"
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