"I suppose I'm in a very good mood tonight."
"And why is that?"
"Ah, but here we are, at the gates of Little Rome." We had entered a courtyard in what must have been one of the older sections of the palace, for the stonework and statuary were noticeably more worn by time. The doorway through which we had just stepped was flanked by Egyptian guards with spears. Flanking the doorway on the opposite side of the courtyard stood their Roman counterparts.
At our approach, the Roman guards exchanged a glance that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with Merianis. They liked what they saw.
"This is Gordianus-called-Finder," she said. "Your master is expecting him."
The senior of the guards snorted. "We're Romans. We don't have a 'master.' "
"Your imperator, then."
The guard glanced at me, then looked Merianis up and down. "But who's expecting you, my sweet?"
"Don't be impertinent!" I snapped. "This woman is a priestess in the royal temple of the goddess Isis."
The guard looked at me warily. "I meant no disrespect."
"Then stop wasting our time. Were you not told to expect me?"
"We were."
"Then take me to Caesar at once."
The guard ceded his place to another stationed inside the door and indicated that I should follow him. I glanced over my shoulder at Merianis, who flashed a last, mysterious smile as I stepped around a corner and lost sight of her.
This part of the palace was only a short walk away from the rooms I occupied, and yet I seemed to have stepped into another world. No longer were there whispering courtiers passing in hallways with the sound of sandaled footsteps and the rustle of long linen gowns, leaving the scents of chrysanthemum oil and rosewater in their wake; or the bustle of royal slaves going to and fro, full of self-importance; or the mysterious sounds of music and laughter coming from inaccessible chambers across moonlit courtyards. Instead, I found myself in the brusque, entirely masculine atmosphere of a Roman military camp. I smelled fish stew, heard peals of crude laughter, and felt rough hands searching for concealed weapons in my tunic as I passed through one checkpoint after another. In one of the larger courtyards, tents had been set up to provide the soldiers with accommodations. Priceless statues of Osiris and Serapis loomed incongruously above legionnaires lounging in their undergarments, sitting cross-legged and tossing sheep-bone dice on the ancient mosaic floor.
Eventually the guard passed me into the keeping of a senior officer, who apologized profusely for any indignities I might have suffered and assured me that his imperator was eager to welcome me with all possible attention to my comfort.
We ascended a very long flight of steps, then turned about and ascended more steps. The officer saw that I was slightly winded, and paused for a bit; then we ascended yet more stairs. At the end of a long, colonnaded corridor, tall bronze doors swung open. The officer showed me inside, then discreetly vanished.
The room was stunning. The floor was of dark green marble striated with veins of deep purple and rust orange. Columns of the same extraordinary marble-I had never seen anything like it-supported a ceiling of massive beams painted gold and inlaid with crisscrossing ebony and ivory tesserae. Here and there, rugs with designs of dizzying complexity were thrown on the floor, surrounded by massive pieces of furniture-tripod tables that appeared to be made of solid silver, and chairs and couches inlaid with precious stones and strewn with plump cushions of some shimmering, iridescent fabric. Illumination came from a dozen or more silver lamps hung by chains from the ceiling; each lamp was fashioned in the shape of four ibises flying in different directions, with the tips of their spread wings touching and points of flame flickering from their open beaks. The light was diffused softly and evenly throughout the room, creating an atmosphere of ease and relaxation that muted the magnificence of the appointments. Starlight and moonlight entered through tall windows that opened to views on all four sides of the room; the windows were framed by curtains of green linen hemmed with silver threads. I walked to the nearest window, which faced south, and looked out on a panorama of tiled roofs, hanging gardens, and obelisks, with Lake Mareotis in the background, its still, black face a mirror full of stars.
"Gordianus! In spite of all my entreaties to that wretched eunuch, I still wasn't sure you'd come."
I turned about and saw that Caesar sat in a corner of the room with a coverlet draped over his shoulders, so that only his head was showing. Behind him stood a slave in a green tunic, fussily wielding a comb and a pair of scissors.
"I hope you don't mind, Gordianus, but I'm not quite done having my hair cut. I've been so busy lately that I've rather neglected my grooming. Samuel here is the best barber in the known world; a Jew from Antioch. I conquered Gaul, I bested Pompey, but there's one enemy against whom I find myself powerless: this damned bald spot! It's invincible. Relentless. Merciless. Every month more hairs are lost, the line of battle falls back, and the bald spot claims a wider territory. But if one cannot defeat an enemy, sometimes one can rob him of the trappings of victory, at least. Only Samuel knows the secret of holding this enemy at bay. He cuts and combs my hair just so, and eureka! No one would ever know that my bald spot has grown so large."
I raised an eyebrow, tempted to disagree; from where I stood, the shiny spot was glaringly visible, but if Caesar believed that combing a few strands of hair over his naked pate created the illusion of a full head of hair, who was I to disabuse him of the notion?
"There, all done!" announced Samuel. The barber was a tiny fellow, and had to stand upon a block of wood to reach Caesar's head. He stepped off the block, put aside his instruments, pulled the coverlet from Caesar's shoulders, and gave it a shake. I saw with some relief that Caesar was dressed as informally as I was, in a long saffron-colored tunic loosely belted at the waist. He looked quite slender. Meto had once told me that Caesar could boast that he still had the waistline he had possessed at thirty, while Pompey's waistline had doubled with age.
"Perhaps you'd care to avail yourself of Samuel's services?" said Caesar. "You are looking a bit ragged, if you don't mind my saying so. In addition to cutting hair, Samuel is also quite adept at tweezing unwanted hair from the nostrils or ears, or from any other part of the body that requires depilation."
"Thank you for the offer, Imperator, but I'll pass."
"As you wish. Off with you, then, Samuel. Tell the servers that I shall take dinner presently. On the terrace, I think." He turned his gaze to me. "No need to address me as a military commander, Gordianus. My mission to Egypt is peaceful. I come as consul of the Roman people."
I nodded. "Very well, Consul."
He began to cross the room. I followed, then stopped in my tracks as my gaze fell upon a life-sized, nude statue of Venus that stood in one corner. The statue was breathtaking, so lifelike and full of sensuality that the marble appeared to breath. The flesh of the Venus looked warm, not cold; her lips seemed ready to speak, or to kiss; her eyes stared searchingly into my own. Her countenance seemed at once serene and brimming with passion. In Rome, latter-day copies of such masterpieces are strewn about the gardens of the rich and stuck here and there on public buildings like so many poppy seeds sprinkled on a custard. But a copy is never the same as an original, and this was clearly not a copy; it could only have been fashioned by the hand of one the great Greek masters of the Golden Age.
Caesar saw my reaction and joined me in front of the Venus. "Impressive, isn't she?"
"I've never seen her equal," I admitted.
"Nor have I. I'm told she was once the property of Alexander himself, and it was he who installed her in the very first royal palace built in Alexandria. Can you imagine? Alexander looked upon her face!"