I borrowed a sheet of parchment from my father’s basket and used my brother’s carving knife to cut a square the same size as the papyrus. Then I prepared the paint. Years ago my father had given me a special box of ground-mineral pigments: gypsum, carbon, iron oxides of red and yellow, azurite, and malachite. I mixed the pigments with water and wood resin to the right consistency and made a palette.
I closed my eyes and, with my reed brush in hand, tried to conjure the first image, but instead I saw Ariston looming over me. I dearly hoped he would not share our secret. The chastening my father would give me would be worse than any punishment from Zeus. My father might even ban me from the library forever. I shuddered at the thought.
For days I stayed away from the library and struggled to recreate the first image. I was convinced my father would barge into my room at any moment, demanding to know what I had been doing in the lower galleries. But he never came, and I knew Ariston had not said a word.
Since my misconduct had not been discovered, I decided surely this was a sign I could return again. This time I took special care in my appearance. I chose my most alluring gown, a deep crimson, and adorned the ends of my plated hair with gold beads. I lined my eyes with kohl and gave my cheeks and lips a subtle stain of red ochre. I chose one of my mother’s most enticing perfumes, letting its scents of lily, myrrh, and cinnamon envelop me like a cloak.
I strolled through the entire library hoping to discover Ariston, but he was nowhere to be found. Disappointed that my efforts had earned me only the stares of several old men, I abandoned the search and headed to the secret door with my key and parchment square in hand. As I hurried with the lock, I heard a voice behind me.
“So the goddess returns.”
I spun around. Ariston had been waiting for me. My heart fluttered like a bird taking flight.
“Another task for your father?” he asked, coming toward me. We both knew I had not been on official business last time, nor was I now.
Footsteps sounded on the marble behind us. Someone was coming, and there we were with the library’s most secret door wide open. Ariston grabbed a lantern and pulled me inside the stairwell. We waited, huddled together until we heard the footsteps pass.
“Why have you returned?” he asked in a whisper. “Do you have a death wish?”
“I needed to see something,” I whispered back. “Why are you here?”
“I needed to see something too.”
We locked eyes. I could tell he meant me. Thankfully, the darkness hid my silly smile.
Then he whispered with a knowing smile, “Lead the way, daughter of Phileas.”
We descended the stone staircase and I quickly headed toward the last gallery, leaving him to follow behind. I arrived at the last alcove and reached for the stone box.
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 recreate 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 it had not been an accident?
Or fated?
Or maybe marked by the gods?
She took off her magnifying glasses and rubbed her forehead, feeling a headache coming on. Her translation abilities were rusty, which had made reading a slow process. She needed all three of her dictionaries to decipher every other line.
But if she had gotten the translation right so far—and she believed the story’s narrator—then this memoir was written during the time of Cleopatra, who was born in 69 B.C.