She spun back around, and while I still sawdoubt there, I decided not to prolong our fun anymore.
“My grandmother,” I explained as Iindicated Septimus, “and his mother, Iras, was the half-sister ofCleopatra, through Cleopatra’s father Ptolemy XIII.”
When she glanced over at Septimus, henodded. Even young Gaius, who had been standing there as a silentwitness spoke up then. “That’s right, Bronwen. Everything they’resaying is true.”
For a moment, I thought she might faint, butthen she quickly got into the spirit of the moment, giving thefeminine version of a bow as she said with mock gravity, “Then Ihumbly beg your pardon, Your Highness.”
I pursed my lips as I pretended to thinkabout it, then said, with an exaggerated leer, “I think I can comeup with a just punishment.”
This made her laugh.
“Is that a promise?”
“It is,” I assured her.
Then I decided it was time to tell hereverything about how the former slave Iras Pullus found herselfending up a freedwoman married to the former Quartus Pilus Prior ofthe 8th Legion, and the motherof another Quartus Pilus Prior, as well as a Tesseraurius in Gaius’ father, and thegrandmother of a third Quartus Pilus Prior. I will not lie; when Ifirst read the Prefect’s account, learning that my paternalgrandmother was once a slave ignited a number of feelings withinme, some of them in direct opposition to each other. No Roman likesthe idea that anyone in our bloodline was once a slave, even ifthat ancestor was not a Roman themselves, although Iras was grantedcitizenship by Divus Augustus when he extended the franchise to theprovince in which Arelate is located. It is still something thatcauses me an occasional qualm, but as time has passed, more thananything, I am proud to be linked by blood to someone who, in herown way, was as remarkable as the man who once owned her. And, whenI reached this part of the story as I related it to Bronwen, withinput from both Septimus and Alex, who corroborated the detailsthat, to someone not familiar with the story, would seem to becompletely unbelievable, I enjoyed myself immensely. In fact, it isprobably one of my favorite parts of the Prefect’s account, how theslave Iras was placed with the merchant Deukalos in Ephesus duringthe civil war between the two Triumvirs, Augustus and MarcusAntonius, with orders issued by Cleopatra herself to poison thegiant Roman Centurion who, at least at one point, she had held inhigh regard. So absorbed were we that we were all surprised when,as if out of nowhere, the huge lighthouse towered above us asthe Persephone entered theGreat Harbor of Alexandria, Demeter expertly guiding us between thetwo fingers of land, one of them the manmade causeway extendingfrom Pharos Island, upon which the lighthouse is located at thevery end. We all stopped talking then, and I confess I was asawestruck at the sight of the massive structure, not just becauseof its height, which is well over three hundred feet, but thesimplicity of its design. And, I remember thinking, the Prefectdescribed it perfectly, so much so that I could point out toBronwen that it was merely a set of three geometric shapes; asquare, albeit a massive one almost a hundred feet tall, upon whichan octagonal section rested, with the final shape a circulartower.
I was quite pleased when she said, “Ithought you said you have never been to Alexandria before.”
“I haven’t,” I assured her. “Buteverything I’m telling you is from my great-grandfather’s account.Which,” I wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her more closelyso that I could whisper, “is why I want to teach you to read, sothat you can experience it as well.”
She did not appear disbelieving as much asskeptical as she asked, “You are saying that I will be able tospeak of things like this, just from reading words?”
“Yes, you will, I promise.”
Just as I said this, we rounded thelighthouse to get the first glimpse of the Heptastadion, where bothsides of the long quay were lined with ships, and while thelighthouse was certainly not forgotten, there were new sightsgreeting our eyes that made us gape in amazement. In that moment, Iremember feeling like quite the provincial.
“How long is that thing?”
Before I could think of how it would sound,I teased her, “Why do you think it’s called a Heptastadion?” Herblank expression made me feel a bit foolish, as I recalled, “Ah,yes. You have no reason to know how the Greeks measure things.”After I questioned her a bit about the kind of measurements thetribes of Britannia use, I settled on explaining, “It’s close toone of our miles long.”
As Demeter guided us through the harbor andwe passed under the bridge at the island end of the Heptastadiononto the side called Eunostos or Old Harbor, using just one bank ofrowers to keep the speed low but with enough to maneuver, we turnedour attention to something that, frankly, none of us hadconsidered.
“There doesn’t appear to be any emptyspots.” Alex was the one to mention what was certainly foremost inmy mind.
I pointed out to the harbor, away fromthe Heptastadion, where there were easily a hundred ships anchored,but none of them were near the size of the Persephone, and to my eye, appeared to befishing vessels and small craft designed more for the river thanthe sea.
“I suppose we’ll anchor outthere.”
“Maybe you should go talk to Demeter,”Alex suggested. “He can at least tell us what toexpect.”
It was something I should have thought ofbefore we ever reached the harbor, but I blame the distraction forit, and I hurried down the ladder, crossing the deck to reachDemeter, who was barking out orders from the steering oar. He musthave seen me approaching, but his eyes never left the prow of theship as, with an expertise that I could only admire, he wove a pathbetween the bobbing ships who had not been berthed.
“It doesn’t look like we’ll be able toput in at the Heptastadion,” I began.
He shook his head, but to my surprise, itwas not in confirmation.
“That depends on how much we arewilling to pay for a berth,” he said with the confidence that
