The Unwanted Gods

Featured image above: A clandestine arrival. The mortal remains of Cleopatra and Mark Antony, the “unwanted gods” of a fallen dynasty, are secretly received at Taposiris Magna under cover of darkness.

The necropolis of Taposiris Magna, with its vaulted tombs and mummies facing the temple, speaks of a community expecting eternity.  But on this night, two new souls were added to their number, not with public ceremony, but in frantic secrecy.  The archaeology of this site suggests not just reverence, but a deliberate, last-ditch act of concealment.

This is Part 3 of the series “The Last Light of Taposiris”.  Start from the beginning with Part 1

From her high perch, Iras watched the dark shape of the barge glide into the temple’s small, enclosed harbor.  It was not a grand royal vessel, but a sturdy, wide-bottomed Nile boat, its sails furled, propelled by silent oars—a ghost ship.   As it nudged the stone quay, a dozen shadowy figures emerged from the temple, their footsteps hushed on the stone.

She descended the tower stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs.  By the time she reached the courtyard, the first litter was already being carried through the gate.  The air, once heavy with incense, was now tainted with the cloying sweetness of myrrh and balsam, undercut by a sharper, more metallic scent Iras refused to name.

Upon the litter lay a shape, swathed in linen already dark with unguents.  It was large, broad-shouldered.  Mark Antony.  The Roman general who had become Osiris.  His passage left a trail of fragrant resin on the stones.

Behind him came the second litter.  It was smaller.  More still.

Iras dared a glance as it passed.  The linen over the face was translucent, soaked in the sacred oils.  Beneath it, she could just make out the strong, elegant line of a nose, the curve of a jaw.  A shiver, both of terror and awe, seized her.  This was not just a body.  This was Cleopatra VII.  The Pharaoh, the Goddess, the last hope of Egypt, now as still as the statues in her own temple.

Ankhefenmut stood before the entrance to the tunnel, a dark maw in the earth normally reserved for sacred processions.  She held a lamp high, her face a mask of grim resolve.

“Hurry,” a man from the barge whispered, his voice strained.  “Octavian’s scouts are on the ridge.  They know she is gone from the palace.  They will search everywhere.”

There was no time for rites, for chants, for the proper hours of lamentation.  The greatest burial in Egyptian history had to be completed in the space of a single, panicked hour.

“Take them into the belly of the god,” Ankhefenmut commanded.  “To the prepared chamber.  Iras, lead the way.  You know the path.”

Iras, her hands trembling, took a lamp from the wall.  With one last look at the star-flecked sky, she turned her back on the world and stepped into the waiting darkness of the tunnel.  The weight of the two most wanted souls in the world followed close behind.