be a family connection, indeed a divine connection, between Queen Cleopatra and myself.'
I smiled uncertainly. Was he serious, or merely indulging in a bit of fancy wordplay? The look on his face was anything but whimsical.
'Imperator!' Meto appeared in the doorway. He studiously kept his eyes from meeting mine. 'I present Apollodorus, a servant of Cleopatra, who bears a gift from Her Majesty.'
Meto moved aside to permit a tall, imposing figure to step forward. Apollodorus was darkly handsome, with a great mane of black hair swept back from his forehead and a neatly trimmed black beard. He wore a very brief, sleeveless tunic that left bare his long, muscular legs and arms. His biceps were bisected by veins that protruded above the straining muscles as he held aloft a rolled-up rug. I remembered all the steps I had ascended to reach the room; the flesh of Apollodorus was sleek with sweat from the exertion of carrying his burden, but his breath was unlabored.
The rug was bound with slender rope in three places to keep it from unfurling. Apollodorus knelt and set it gently on the floor. 'Queen Cleopatra welcomes Gaius Julius Caesar to the city of Alexandria,' he said, speaking in Latin, with an ungainly accent that suggested he had memorized the phrase by rote. In Greek, to Meto, he said, 'If I may have back my knife, so that I might cut the cords…'
'I'll do that myself,' said Caesar. Meto pulled his sword from its scabbard and handed it to Caesar. Caesar poked the sharp point against a strand of rope.
Apollodorus gasped. 'Please, Caesar, be careful!'
'Is the rug not mine?' said Caesar. He smiled at Meto. 'Am I not a man who knows the value of things?'
'You are, Imperator,' agreed Meto.
'And am I ever careless with the things that are mine?'
'Never, Imperator.'
'Very well, then.' Caesar deftly cut the three strands of rope, then stepped back to allow Apollodorus to unfurl the rug.
As the rug was unrolled, it became obvious that there was something inside it-not merely an object, but something alive and moving. I stepped back and let out a gasp, then saw that Caesar and Meto smiled; they were not entirely surprised at the sight of Queen Cleopatra as she rolled forth from the carpet and rose to her feet in a single, fluid motion.
The rolled rug had given no evidence of the prize it concealed; it seemed impossible that its folds could contain a personage who loomed as large in imagination as Cleopatra. But the immensity of the image conjured by her name was curiously out of scale with the actual, physical embodiment of the woman herself. Indeed, she seemed hardly a woman at all, but very much a girl, small and slender with petite hands and feet. Her hair was pulled back and tied in a bun at the nape of her neck-no doubt the most efficient way of styling it for travel inside a rug. It also allowed her to wear a simple diadem set far back on her head, a uraeus crown that featured not a rearing cobra but a sacred vulture's head. Her dark blue gown covered her from her neck to her ankles and was belted with golden sashes around her waist and below her bosom. Small she might be, but her figure was not girlish; the ampleness of her hips and breasts would have pleased the sculptor of the Venus that had so impressed me earlier. Her face might have captivated a master sculptor as well. She was not the most beautiful of young women-Bethesda in her prime had been more beautiful, and so had Cassandra-but there was something intriguing about her large, strong features. Queen Cleopatra had one of those faces that becomes more fascinating the longer one looks at it, for it seemed to change in some subtle way each time the light shifted or whenever she moved her head.
She stood erect, squared her shoulders, and gave a shudder, as if to shake loose the last vestige of her confinement in the rug. She reached behind her head and undid the knots in her hair, shaking it loose and letting it fall past her shoulders, but keeping the diadem in place. She raised her arms and ran her fingers through the tangles. I glanced at Caesar and Meto. They appeared as captivated by her as I was, especially Caesar. What manner of creature was this, who had risked capture and death to smuggle herself into Caesar's presence, and now stood before three strangers preening herself as unself-consciously as a cat?
She looked at us one by one. The sight of Meto evidently pleased her, for she spent a long moment appraising him from head to foot. I was less interesting to her. Her gaze turned to Caesar and remained upon him. The look they exchanged was of such an intensity that all else in the room seemed to fade; I sensed that I had become a shadow to them.
Caesar smiled. 'Meto, what do you think of Queen Cleopatra's present?'
' 'Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,' ' Meto quoted. I assumed he was making a joke, facetiously comparing the queen's rug to the Trojan Horse, but when I glanced at his face, I saw that he did not smile.
The queen ignored these comments. She assumed a formal stance, one foot before the other with her head tilted slightly back and her arms spread in a gracious gesture. Her Latin was flawless and without accent. 'Welcome to Alexandria, Gaius Julius Caesar. Welcome to my palace.'
'Her palace?' I heard Meto mutter.
Caesar shot him a sharp look, then spoke to me. 'My apologies, Gordianus. I had intended that you and I should dine at our leisure tonight, sharing our thoughts. But one never knows when a matter of state will arise, as it has, however unconventionally, this evening.'
'No need to apologize,' I said. 'I've been a poor guest. My conversation was as weak as my appetite. I'll leave you now.'
I strode from the terrace into the grandly appointed room, not looking back. I slowed my pace for a moment as I passed the statue of Venus. There was something about the queen that reminded me of the goddess, some intangible quality to which great artists attune their senses. Ordinary men call it divinity and know it when they encounter it, even if their tongues cannot capture it with words or their hands give shape to it in sculpture. Queen Cleopatra possessed that quality-or was I simply dazzled for the moment, as any man can be dazzled by an object of desire? Surely Cleopatra was no more a goddess than Bethesda had been, and Caesar no more a god than I.
I pushed open the bronze doors and stepped out of the room, and did not realize I was being followed until I heard a voice mutter behind me: 'She's trouble.'
I stopped and turned around. Meto almost collided with me, then stepped back a respectful distance. 'Papa,' he whispered, lowering his eyes.
I made no answer. Despite his armor, despite his strong limbs and his battle scars and the thick stubble across his jaw, he looked to me at that moment like a boy, timorous and full of doubt. I bit my lip. I screwed up my courage. 'I suppose it's just as well we've met. There's something I must tell you. This won't be easy…'
' 'Quickest done is best done,' ' Meto said, quoting the proverb I had taught him as a child, suitable to pulling thorns or drinking foul medicine. He kept his eyes lowered, but his lips formed a faint, ingratiating smile. I tried to ignore it.
'The reason I came to Egypt…'
He lifted his eyes to meet mine. I looked away.
'Bethesda has been unwell for quite some time,' I said. 'Some malady the physicians could never put a name to. She conceived a notion, that if only she could bathe in the Nile…'
Meto frowned. 'Is Bethesda here in Egypt with you?'
My tongue turned to lead. I tried to swallow but could not. 'Bethesda came to Egypt. She bathed in the Nile, as she wished. But the river took her from me. She vanished.'
'What are you saying, Papa? Did she drown?'
'The river took her. Perhaps it was best, if her sickness was incurable. Perhaps it was what she intended all along.'
'Bethesda is dead?' His lips quivered. His brows drew together. The son who was no longer my son, the favorite of Caesar who had seen men die by the thousands, who had hacked his way through drifts of dead bodies and mountains of gore, began to weep.
'Meto!' I whispered his name, but kept my distance.
'I never thought…' He shook his head. Tears streamed down his cheeks. 'When you're far from home, you can't help but imagine what might be happening there, but you teach yourself to think of only good things. In the field, getting ready for battle, fighting a battle, tending to the aftermath, there's so much terror all around, so much confusion and bloodshed and suffering, that when you think of home you think of everything that's the opposite, a
