The coarse Mediterranean winds blow against my cheeks. I hear the winters to be cold out at sea from the men of the ship. The Antonius. Named in honor of the man who fell valiantly in battle to protect his wife. Though it mattered not, for she too soon took her own life, unable to bear the loss of her beloved. But Octavian was not victorious. Foiled in his battle against the Pharoah, he died soon after from injury. Her son, Caesarion, now ruled the new Rome. A new era of the Imperium.

A roaring wave torqued the ship and I was nearly flung overboard.

There was a reason I was on this ship, though. Whilst the Queen busied with her schemings, I took to exploring the fertile plains of Kemet and the harsh sands of Deshret. My travels took me to the Fertile Crescent, then still under Egypt. I trekked across Gaza, through the rocky deserts of the Negev, wherein I came across a band of Bedouin shepherds whom I shared a tent with through the wintry night. From them, I heard a fascinating tale of a strange sect going by the name of Yaḥad that lived a cloistered life high up in the mountains near the Dead Sea. Overflowing with curiosity, I asked for their help in finding those caves, which they graciously accepted.

For ten days and nights, we walked on foot and rode atop camels until we came upon Cyclopean caves sculpted by the unceasing flow of time. Further East, a settlement rose seemingly out of nowhere. The place itself was nothing spectacular, rough-cut stone blocks placed atop one another, and a ten-foot high square-shaped building commanded the center. The Bedouin herdsmen bid farewell to me, and I entered the complex post-haste.

The inhabitants welcomed me warmly. Despite what was rumored of them, they seemed kind and level-headed, and wiser than any I had met in my stay at Alexandria. They revealed to me that they were sons of Israel who worshipped the God of Moses. I told them I too worship the same God.

I spent several days and nights speaking to the men, following them on their treks into the aforementioned mountains that dotted the realm. During one such trek, one man, Yôḥānān, told me of a tale so harrowing that I dare not repeat it, but I shall repeat it thus:

As was popular at the time, the prophecy of the Messiah being born was spoken as far as from Persia to Iberia. Where the sons of Israel walked, they said, the story of their deliverance followed. The strange part came next. Yôḥānān spoke of an apocalyptic battle between the Sons of Light led by the Archangel Mīkhāēl, and the Sons of Darkness led by the Prince of Hell Bəlīyyaal. When I inquired about who would fight in this war, he laughed and gestured around him. A pit of darkness grew in my stomach. When I inquired about the opposing side, he spoke of the Kittim, the men that ruled over them with an iron fist. The Egyptians, the Seleucids, and the Romans. God had cursed these idolatrous kings, he said, and all the land from Damascus to Hispania belonged to the Sons of Light.

The next day, I dreamt of the final book of the Holy Bible. Of the trumpets that sounded by the seven angels of Armageddon. I dreamt of the searing blade of War, the golden crown of Pestilence, the onyx scales of Famine, and the pallid mask of Death. I awoke with a feverish sweat. Muted sounds of trumpets rose and fell in the distance. I put on my cotton garments and rushed outside.

"You have made it in time, friend." These were the last words Yôḥānān uttered to me. I collapsed to my knees at the sight above, palpitations swelling across my body. An entity larger than any mountain I had seen soared above. Six wings covered with a multitude of eyes, four wings concealing within them a horror unspeakable. The eyes followed mine, chanting praises to the Lord. I shut my ears, unable to bear the earsplitting voices. Yôḥānān looked down upon me with pity and rode off towards the West.

As soon as I was able to stand, I mounted my camel and rode off toward the Capital. If I made it back in time, nobody had to die. It would not be my fault this time. I clenched my jaw and rode night and day until I made it back. A plague had overcome the city. I rode to the Palace, but the Queen did not seem to be present. Instead, I found the priestess of Hathor.

It is as prophesied, she told me. She led me to an ancient temple of Saïs. In an age long forgotten, a similar tragedy had befallen the Empire of Adras in the Far West. It sank beneath the ocean, forgotten forever. But a text existed in that temple that had within it an encrypted song of an En-Naddāha, a witness of the disaster who had tried her hardest to prevent the tragedy but failed, cursed to live a life confined to the banks of the Nile. What was known of her was that she still existed and that she sought vengeance upon those that wronged her. I took the scroll in hand, and surprisingly, the text seemed to be written in the same Aramaic script I had read with the Yaḥad. That very night, I submerged myself within the Nile and sang the hymn of the En-Naddāha to break the chains that bound the creature.

I felt a cold touch upon my cheek as I descended. A cold touch. Leaden eyes. Pulled into the abyss below. When I awoke, I found myself unclothed on the banks of the Nile, the plague had seemingly passed. A Roman fleet with its crimson banners sailed the winds. I narrowed my eyes. In the far distance, across the stretches of the sea rose smoke and ash. The bellowing trumpets had ceased their sound.