blood, Bagoas. Who am I that I should interpret parables?
Now he understood, and struggling from his knees, bent forward whispering in my ear. Yes, the priceless jewels that hung from his pointed golden cap jingled against my ear.
I understand,
he said, and be sure it shall be done. But not yet. It cannot be yet. Still I swear that it shall be done when the hour is ripe. I hate him! I say that I hate him who while he showers gifts upon me with his hands, mocks me with his tongue, and who, when by my wit I win victories for him, jeers at the soldiers who are led by one who is neither man nor woman. Yes, I hate him who, knowing that I am of Egypt and in my heart a worshipper of the gods of Egypt, forces me to desecrate their shrines and to butcher those who serve them. Oh! I swear that it shall be done in its season.
By what, O Bagoas?
By this, Prophetess,
and seizing the dripping veil he rubbed that which stained it upon his lips and brow, I swear by the blood of Isis, or of her Priestess and Oracle in whom Isis is, that I will neither rest nor stay till I bring Ochus Artaxerxes to his doom. Years may go by, but still I will bring him to his doom—at a price.
What price?
I asked.
That of absolution, Priestess, which is yours to give.
Aye, it is mine to give or to withhold. Yet I give it not until Ochus lies dead, and by your hand. Then I call it down from Heaven—not before.
At least protect me till that hour, O Daughter of the Queen of Heaven.
From the necklace I wore beneath my veil I loosed a certain charm of power, the secret symbol
