His eyes grew wide when he saw the square in my hand. “You took one?”
“Of course not,” I said, pleased he had mistaken my replica for the original. “See? There are no hieroglyphs.”
“You painted this?” His voice rose and I shushed him.
He bent to look at my work, and the top of his head leaned so close that I could smell the juniper berries and honey in his hair. I frowned, wondering if a woman had made him such a tonic, if he already belonged to another.
“You’re quite good,” he said. “Yes, I see now.” Then he took out the papyrus squares from the stone box, handling them nimbly. I could tell he was as taken with them as I was. He read the hieroglyph on the first image aloud.
The word sounded strange, but I refused to ask its meaning. My face, however, gave me away.
He needled me playfully. “The librarian’s daughter only knows Greek?”
I could not help bristling. Most highborns only knew Greek. We were all, in essence, Greeks in Egypt. Even the Ptolemies had never bothered to learn the language of the land.
Young Cleopatra, daughter of Ptolemy XII, was the first royal ever to master Egyptian. She was my age and not only graceful but also a gifted linguist. I had heard her speak in eight different tongues fluently and quote many great works at length from memory. She was perhaps the only girl in Alexandria who loved the library more than me.
Now I wished I had attempted to learn Egyptian so I could impress Ariston, but I had to admit that I never had. “What does it mean?”
“It means ‘the fool.’”
I studied him to see if he was mocking me, but he wasn’t.
“I’ve never seen anything like them,” he said. “These must have come from Siwa, from the Old Time.”
I nodded, already suspecting as much. The Old Time was Egypt’s most ancient history. Few works had survived from those years, but legends of secret scrolls and magical texts hidden in these caverns abounded.
“Do you see how each has a different name?” he pointed out.
“I can’t read them,” I reminded him, no longer trying to mask my disappointment.
“Well, I can tell you what they say,” he offered. “That’s simple enough.”
“Can you translate the scroll?” I asked, trying not to grow too excited. His eyebrows rose at my daring. So I teased him, repeating what he had said to me. “Curiosity is the scholar’s bread.”
His eyes glinted with amusement and he took the scroll. “The papyrus is frayed and the writing is barely legible. Plus it’s an ancient form of hieroglyph. Translating would take time.”
“Still,” I pressed, putting my hand on his arm, “you could do it.”
“For you, I could,” he surprised me by saying. “Meet me at the door every other morning, and I’ll transcribe a section to translate.”
“And I can study the images and try to re-create them.”
“Excellent.” He seemed pleased with himself. “That should take us a while.”
We looked at each other and smiled. My eyes gravitated toward his lips, taking in their sensual curve. If he tried to kiss me now, I would let him. The prospect of clandestine meetings with Ariston filled me with anticipation. What we were about to do was reckless, forbidden—and also the most important task I would undertake in my young life.
Looking back, I never could have attempted to read the scroll without him. Ariston risked disgracing his family’s good name to help me. Hindsight offers many treasures, clarity being one. Only later, after Ariston finished translating the scroll, would I understand that finding the key and stone box had not been an accident at all.
Ace of Pentacles
Semele squinted at the ancient Greek letters, unsure if she was getting the translation right.…
Was ithad not been an accident?
Orfated?
Or maybemarked by the gods?
