Chapter 46: Father, I'm Back from My Revelry—A Bacchanalian Celebration in Egypt?

“A letter on a clay tablet?”

Kilimann thought of the box in his room, which he always used as a pillow, allowing him to sleep peacefully.

As for his elder brother’s mention of the Emperor’s throne—

He might as well take it as a joke. Their father from over forty thousand years ago was just a fool in the human realm’s rites of recognition, at least still a man.

Everyone says nonsense at times, speaks with flowery words.

But now, the skeleton seated on the Golden Throne, that godly figure, can no longer escape its destiny.

Kilimann rubbed his face, regaining composure. Many times, he was still just the child on Macragge who followed the arrangements of his foster parents.

But now, he was the Imperial Regent. Hyperspace travel was over; it was time to face the enemies lurking behind the continuously incoming “victories” reported from the frontlines.

Those damned bugs!

Forty thousand years ago, Ancient Egypt, Heliopolis—also known as On.

It was once the capital of the Egyptian dynasty.

Near the north, On became the last bastion against the infiltration of Greek culture, renamed with a name styled after Athens to honor the sun god—Heliopolis.

The current Pharaoh, Niko II, established the capital further south at Sais to prevent the Egyptian gods from being entirely replaced by the Greek pantheon, and to stop the pharaoh’s divine rule as Horus’ earthly representative from being maliciously distorted.

Could this be considered one of the earliest measures between ancient civilizations to prevent the religious and cultural triumph of the other?

In any case, even two thousand years later, the situation remained the same.

As tensions rose and the Egyptian elite prepared for war, more people began to use the ancient name On.

At least Aaron thought it was good that everyone kept their distinct identities; otherwise, he’d have to keep repeating those long names.

A day ago, upon awakening, he found they had already arrived at On. The city bore a style reminiscent of Athens, with relatively tall walls and temples built with Doric columns.

These were the oldest and simplest pillars, though it was said that in Asia Minor, scholars were studying how to add more ornate patterns or modify their style to enhance elegance.

Rome was even considering constructing temples with vaulted domes.

In times of peace, these architects tended to create grand spectacles, believing bigger meant stronger and more magnificent.

Aaron’s last memory of this knowledge was before his mother left, when an architect, with a painter friend, tried to secretly sketch his father’s sleeping posture, intending to build human-shaped pillars.

They wanted to renovate the temple of the priestess—his mother—using this image.

But then his parents caught and beat them up.

His mother likely hated the idea of seeing that old man whenever she looked up, and his father probably didn’t want his sleeping posture exposed to the world.

Walking through the temple, this dual dream experience left Aaron’s thoughts scattered across multiple visions—he had to concentrate to recover.

Even now, the fish in the pot was still swimming and blowing bubbles. Damn it, why was it thrown in without being scaled and bled?

He hurriedly scooped the fish out, watching the poor little creature wriggle in his hand.

Then Marum came over and gently snapped off the fish’s head. He’d seen some hideous alien fish and heard of their ancestors’ heroic deeds of cutting fish for over a decade on certain alien worlds.

“Aaron, why are you hiding inside? Leave the fish to Marum and come light the fire. These are all newly bought—the market women wouldn’t even take my money. Ha! No more wild greens and herbs for us.”

Anda called out to his son from the courtyard. He hadn’t groomed himself for days; his beard had grown back, and soon he’d look as scruffy as before.

Marum took over the work by the stove, whispering before Aaron left:

“It was the master who tossed a live fish in while you weren’t paying attention. Don’t doubt whether you’ve lost some memories.”

Aaron, still dazed, suddenly focused, angrily rolling up his sleeves and rushing outside.

There, his father was building a grill rack and crafting a stove shape from clay.

Aaron brought over the firewood and inspected the contraption.

“Father, what is this? I thought you only knew how to work with clay, smooth surfaces, and carve inscriptions. I didn’t expect you to make stoves too.”

“I only learned clay tablet making from you. You never taught me any other skills.”

Anda patted the surface of the clay mold, smiling warmly:

“The only thing I taught by example was that. It was mainly to see if you’d pee on the clay while playing. But you never did, so I lost interest in teaching you anything else.”

Aaron’s face darkened. As he was about to retort, his father continued:

“You were about four years old then. I bet with Elda that you wouldn’t pee on the clay. Obviously, I lost.”

“So I had to make her a bracelet by hand. It was iron plated with gold, but that woman didn’t notice. Heh heh.”

Aaron no longer felt any emotional turmoil hearing about his parents’ love story.

He simply breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that his mother wasn’t a scatterbrain and had taught him well in his childhood.

“When it dries a little, we can light the fire. This rented house is close to the temples in On. In a few days, there will be the festival of Osiris, the god of wine. Essentially, it’s a way to stir up social fervor and mobilize troops.”

Anda spoke some curious truths, often at odds with his seemingly unreliable demeanor.

Aaron kindled the fire, curious:

“Father, can a wine festival really influence the pace of war? In Athens, their wine festivals are all about revelry and pleasure.”

“As long as people don’t stomp on the fruit and flesh with their feet.”

Anda’s hands moved swiftly, assembling the frame outside the stove. For once, there was a rare moment of filial harmony as he answered Aaron’s questions:

“Humans are driven by desire and emotion. That’s not bad, but it needs guidance. If a prosperous and peaceful region faces war, people’s emotions must be stirred. It’s best to hold bloody rituals or contests on the spot.”

“Through deliberate guidance, people tend to obey orders and vent their emotions. Even if their reason tells them that marching north into Egypt means facing encirclement by Macedon, Rome, and even old foes Persia.”

Aaron yawned:

“I think lying lazily at home doing nothing is best. So you’re going to participate in the Osiris festival? Egypt’s god of wine isn’t like the northern ones—they’re not so indulgent.”

Anda laughed heartily:

“Who can still tell Dionysus from the Osiris variant Iesiris? The important thing is alcohol, child—that’s the key. Material things have always determined spirit and soul.”

Marum, cleaning fish in the kitchen, looked up. Could this be the origin of the Imperial Truth?

How many critical moments had he already recorded?

Macedon, the Sun Temple.

Elda sneezed, glanced at the weather—still not the season for cooling.

She looked at the bracelet on her arm, knowing it was fake but didn’t care.

As long as it symbolized her one victory over Anda, it was enough.

However, the bracelet stirred her emotions.

She recalled the day she went without giving her son water.

Children were resilient; it wasn’t a big problem.