The message had arrived at dusk, on the fleeing remnants of his fleet. Alexander was dead, smashed by the gods at Babylon. Mesupet had been in her study ever since.
The fire devoured the sheets of papyrus so eagerly, curling and charring hours of writing in moments. It was the enemy of everything she worked for, but it hypnotised. It twisted so sweetly as it burnt. The first few were an agony, an act of will. Soon she was numb, staring into the writhing flames as her hands moved to destroy her masterpiece.
The ending wouldn’t have suited anyway, she thought, a little giddy. All those glowing descriptions of him, the conquering hero, the charismatic leader, the brave thinker, culminating in brutal, bloody defeat. History was written by the victors and Mesupet had started her history too soon, before the final score. There would be no place for a fawning biography of a defeated heretic as the empire crumbled. Best to pretend that she had never been part of it.
The night passed and the fire ate her complicity.