Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 147649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
But I certainly did. I don’t care for the frantic pace of society these days. So this deliberate and careful preparation of me by the team of humans is almost a relief. And it allows me time to think and… maybe not make plans—is there any point to that? But it gives me a sense of peace that whatever is happening here, maybe it’s not so bad.
When all the pampering is over, they direct me to stand up and then I am dressed. I watch as they bring things out. Arm bands, and jeweled chokers, and the gold skirt. And when it’s all done, and they put a piece of metal in front of me that has been polished into a mirror, I realize… I am him.
I am the statue of me in the stoa of my tomb.
And I am young.
No more than thirteen. Maybe even twelve.
No beard, of course. But no hair, either. Just a skullcap of fuzz. Like it was just shaved this morning.
This realization should not surprise me. And I would not call my reaction surprise, exactly. It’s more like… a slap in the face.
A sharp, painful realization that I have been tricked. And it has taken me two thousand years to figure this out.
In other words, I am embarrassed.
Batty was right. I have no idea who I am.
And of course he was.
He was here.
He is here.
I stare at myself in the mirror for so long, the humans become uncomfortable. Then they place a headdress over my head—and the name of this piece of decoration even comes to me. Nemes. It is striped blue and gold. There is a medallion affixed to it that rides the center of my forehead. The medallion has a winged lion in the center of it and the words ‘Peace unto you’ written in Latin around the top.
It’s the lion of Saint Mark. Also the lion of Saint Mark’s. Not to mention the lion on my ring. Which is not on my hand at the moment because I won’t stumble into that magic for another two millennia.
There is big meaning in this lion symbol, but I don’t have time to figure it out because the humans take the mirror away and proclaim me ready.
Only four humans leave my apartments with me. Two in front, two in back. Like an escort. And they are not the same humans who cleaned and dressed me. They are armed, and they are older, and they are big.
They are guards.
And I am… what?
A prince? Maybe. But not likely.
A god? Also maybe. More likely.
A godling?
Yep. That’s the word I’m looking for. The word Pie used when she was talking about some pact she has been put in with Tarq. Their child was to be a godling.
Something more or less than a god?
I don’t know.
But tonight is my coming-of-age ceremony and tomorrow is my wedding to a market nymph called Pressia. And right now I am going to meet a father I never knew I had.
So I force myself to stay calm, and breathe deep, and walk.
I just walk.
Soon enough, we stop at the threshold of a massive set of doors. And I hope, just for a moment before they are opened, that there will be something else on the other side. Some other world, or memory, or maybe, if I’m very lucky, the sanctuary.
But when have I ever been lucky?
On the other side is a colossal room that completely embodies the whole… vibe of the ancient worlds. Something made for giants. I’ve been living next to a place we call ‘the cathedral,’ so I’m no stranger to grand things. But this room—it stuns me silent for a moment.
“Come, my son.” The voice is something I recognize. Not the voice itself, but the rumble it evokes. It doesn’t shake the room, but it wants to. It’s just that this place is made of monolithic stones.
My attention returns to where it belongs. The god-man himself, sitting on a throne about fifty yards in front of me. I walk forward, squinting my eyes as I try to make out details.
I know this place. Well, kind of. It looks like something I’ve seen in photographs across time. A temple, I guess. With the massive columns painted with stories in hieroglyphics and the mosaic floor in the pattern of concentric circles.
It reminds me of the Temple of Memphis. And then, just as I think the name of this ancient city, another memory bursts forth. Not the Temple of Memphis. The Temple of Ptah.
This is Ptah. The god of the beginning. The creator of everything. The one who comes before. The blacksmith.
I am the son of Ptah.
My feet are moving as I think all this and by the time I get the first line of guards, something comes over me. It’s another switch, like the one I had when I was running. Only this time, it’s different and I find myself kneeling on the tiled floor, then pressing my forehead to the ground with my arms spread forward in front of me and my palms flat on the ground.