Veil of Time

Episode 3

The sun dipped low over the city of Alexandria, casting its golden rays on the winding streets and towering columns. Khepri, a potter from a small village, paused by the side of the road to adjust the heavy load of clay pots on his shoulders. His hands, rough and calloused from years of work, felt heavier today. His daughter, Shai, had fallen ill weeks ago, and without the temple priests to offer prayers or remedies, her condition worsened.

As he entered the marketplace, the hum of merchants, Roman soldiers, and distant cries of hawkers filled the air. Alexandria, once the heart of Cleopatra’s Egypt, now bore the unmistakable marks of Roman rule. Statues of Roman generals stood where once the gods had been worshipped, and the language of power had shifted from Egyptian and Greek to Latin. Still, the people bustled about, their lives continuing in the shadow of a new empire.

Khepri’s brow furrowed as he watched Roman tax collectors move from stall to stall. The taxes had been increased yet again, and the people grumbled beneath their breath. A farmer, Yafeu, stood near a fruit stall, shaking his head.

“It’s not enough they take our land, now they take our grain, our children’s food. They care nothing for the Nile’s cycles, for the gods’ blessings,” Yafeu muttered as Khepri passed.

“They care only for Rome,” Khepri replied, his voice low but tinged with bitterness. “We were once Pharaoh’s people, now we are slaves to men who do not even know the sound of the Nile.”

Yafeu gave a grim nod, his sun-darkened face set with anger. "Pharaohs are dead, my friend. Now we till the soil for men across the sea. Cleopatra's Egypt is no more."

Khepri felt a pang of sorrow at the mention of Cleopatra. He had been a boy when she ruled, but he remembered the tales of her grace, her intelligence, and her beauty. She had been Egypt's last hope. Now, even her name was whispered in silence, for the Romans did not tolerate talk of Egypt’s former glory.

As the two men spoke, a Roman soldier approached, his armor gleaming in the fading sunlight.

"Move along," he barked, shoving Khepri's shoulder with his shield. "This market belongs to Rome now. We don't need your whispers of old gods and dead queens."

Khepri swallowed his anger, his hands clenched into fists. The gods were watching, he told himself, though their voices had grown quiet in recent years. He had learned to suppress his pride, to live under the yoke of these foreign rulers, but it still hurt.

He hurried away, his thoughts heavy with worry. The temple to Thoth in his village, once filled with the sounds of chanting priests, had been shuttered months ago. The priests had been driven out or killed, and the offerings to the gods had ceased. Now, when illness struck, there was no one left to offer prayers for healing. Shai's fever had worsened, and Khepri was running out of options.

His son, Tamin, had taken a different path. Tamin had begun meeting with a group of Christians in Alexandria, drawn by their teachings of a new god who promised salvation. It was a strange and foreign faith, with no temples or statues, no festivals or offerings. Khepri did not understand it, but he had seen the light in Tamin's eyes as he spoke of this new faith.

As Khepri made his way home, he found Tamin waiting for him by the door, his expression earnest.

"Father, there's a man I want you to meet," Tamin said, stepping forward with a quiet urgency.

"I’ve no time for your Christian priests, Tamin," Khepri replied gruffly, his face hardening. “I need to find someone to help your sister, someone who understands the old ways.”

Tamin’s eyes softened, filled with both hope and frustration. “The old ways, Father? The temples are closed. The priests are gone. You keep waiting for gods who no longer speak. But this—this new god can help us. He has helped many.”

Khepri clenched his jaw. “And what would you know of the gods, boy? You speak as if you have seen them. Do not forget where you come from. The Nile flows because of Ra. The crops grow because of Osiris.”

“But what has that faith done for you?” Tamin’s voice cracked with a mixture of desperation and conviction. “We live under the rule of men who care nothing for us. Our gods are silent while the Romans take everything. The god I speak of is not bound by Egypt or Rome. He offers us hope when nothing else remains.”

For a moment, Khepri stood there, torn between the world he had known all his life and the uncertain future his son spoke of. There was a flicker of irony in his heart—how could they be in Egypt, the land of gods, and feel so abandoned? His gaze softened as he looked at Tamin, who was so young, yet so filled with purpose.

“Bring your priest,” Khepri said quietly. “If this god of yours can help Shai, I will listen.”

Later that night, the Christian priest entered their small home. He was a man of quiet demeanor, with kind eyes and simple robes. As he knelt beside Shai’s bed, he began to pray in a language unfamiliar to Khepri, speaking softly of mercy and healing. Khepri watched, his heart heavy with doubt. Would this foreign god even hear them, here in the land of Ra and Anubis?

As the priest prayed, Khepri found himself outside, standing by the river. The moonlight reflected on the waters of the Nile, the river that had given life to his people for millennia. The irony was not lost on him—here he stood, a man of Egypt, praying to a god he did not know, while the gods of his ancestors remained silent.

Yet something stirred in him, a quiet sense of acceptance. The world was changing. Egypt was no longer the land it had been. The temples were gone, the priests scattered, and the old gods seemed distant. But there was still life. The Nile still flowed. The crops still grew. Perhaps, Khepri thought, there was more than one way to honor the land and its people.

Back in Alexandria, Lady Sitre stood in the shadows of the grand palace, watching as Roman officials held court where Cleopatra once sat. She had spent her entire life navigating the delicate politics of the Egyptian court, but now those days were gone. The palace, like Egypt itself, belonged to Rome.

She turned to her brother Menes, who leaned against a marble column, his face worn with years of frustration. “Look at them, Menes. They sit in our halls, speak in their foreign tongues, and they rule over us as if we were nothing.”

Menes nodded, his eyes dark and tired. “Egypt is no longer ours, Sitre. We are ghosts in our own home.”

Sitre’s voice trembled with quiet defiance. “Perhaps. But the Nile still flows. The people still remember. Egypt is more than a kingdom. It is a soul, a spirit. And that cannot be taken, no matter how many temples they close or how many statues they build.”

Menes chuckled bitterly. “Maybe. But I wonder if we’ll live long enough to see it rise again.”

As they spoke, the city of Alexandria buzzed with life. Roman soldiers patrolled the streets, merchants traded goods from across the Empire, and scholars debated in the shadow of the once-great Library. Egypt had changed, but its people had not forgotten who they were.

The Nile lay silent beneath the moon’s gaze, its dark waters rippling gently in the stillness of the night. Suddenly, the river stirred, its surface shifting unnaturally, parting ever so slightly as if something, or someone, lingered just beneath. A low hum, rose from the depths.