Then Sam looked at his watch. “Great dinner, Rachel,” he told his niece, “but I’ve got to get back. What about it?”
“What about what?” she asked.
“About helping poor Julie with some historical turning points he can use in the story?”
He hadn’t listened to a word I’d said. I didn’t have to say so, because Rachel was looking concerned. She said apologetically, “I don’t know anything about those periods you were talking about — Publius Terminus, and so on. My speciality is the immediate post-Augustan period, when the Senate came back to power.”
“Fine,” he said, pleased with himself and showing it. “That’s as good a period as any. Think how different things might be now if some little event then had gone in a different way. Say, if Augustus hadn’t married Lady Livia and adopted her son Drusus to succeed him.” He turned to me, encouraging me to take fire from his spark of inspiration. “I’m sure you see the possibilities, Julie! Tell you what you should do. The night’s young yet; take Rachel out dancing or something; have a few drinks; listen to her talk. What’s wrong with that? You two young people ought to be having fun, anyway!”
That was definitely the most intelligent thing intelligent Sam had said in days.
So I thought, anyway, and Rachel was a good enough niece to heed her uncle’s advice. Because I was a stranger in town, I had to let her pick the place. After the first couple she mentioned I realized that she was tactfully trying to spare my pocketbook. I couldn’t allow that. After all, a night on the town with Rachel was probably cheaper, and anyway a whole lot more interesting, than the cost of an inn and meals.
We settled on a place right on the harbourside, out towards the breakwater. It was a revolving nightclub on top of an inn built along the style of one of the old Pyramids. As the room slowly turned we saw the lights of the city of Alexandria, the shipping in the harbour then the wide sea itself, its gentle waves reflecting starlight.
I was prepared to forget the whole idea of alternate worlds, but Rachel was more dutiful than that. After the first dance, she said, “I think I can help you. There was something that happened in Drusus’ reign—”
“Do we have to talk about that?” I asked, refilling her glass.
“But Uncle Sam said we should. I thought you wanted to try a new kind of sci-rom.”
“No, that’s your uncle who wants that. See, there’s a bit of a problem here. It’s true that editors are always begging for something new and different, but if you’re dumb enough to try to give it to them they don’t recognize it. When they ask for different, what they mean is something right down the good old ‘different’ groove.”
“I think,” she informed me, with the certainty of an oracle and a lot less confusion of style, “that when my uncle has an idea, it’s usually a good one.” I didn’t want to argue with her; I didn’t even disagree: at least usually. I let her talk. “You see,” she said, “my speciality is the transfer of power throughout early Roman history. What I’m studying right now is the Judaean Diaspora, after Drusus’ reign. You know what happened then, I suppose?”
Actually, I did — hazily. “That was the year of the Judaean rebellion, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. She looked very pretty when she nodded, her fair hair moving gracefully and her eyes sparkling. “You see, that was a great tragedy for the Judaeans, and, just as my uncle said, it needn’t have happened. If Procurator Tiberius had lived, it wouldn’t have.”
I coughed. “I’m not sure I know who Tiberius was,” I said apologetically.
“He was the Procurator of Judaea, and a very good one. He was just and fair. He was the brother of the Emperor Drusus — the one my uncle was talking about, Livia’s son, the adopted heir of Caesar Augustus. The one who restored the power of the Senate after Augustus had appropriated most of it for himself. Anyway, Tiberius was the best governor the Judaeans ever had, just as Drusus was the best emperor. Tiberius died just a year before the rebellion — ate some spoiled figs, they say, although it might have been his wife who did it — she was Julia, the daughter of Augustus by his first wife—”
I signalled distress. “I’m getting a little confused by all these names,” I admitted.
“Well, the important one to remember is Tiberius, and you know who he was. If he had lived, the rebellion probably wouldn’t have happened. Then there wouldn’t have been a Diaspora.”
“I see,” I said. “Would you like another dance?”
She frowned at me, then smiled. “Maybe that’s not such an interesting subject — unless you’re a Judaean, anyway,” she said. “All right, let’s dance.”
That was the best idea yet. It gave me a chance to confirm with my fingers what my eyes, ears, and nose had already told me; this was a very attractive young woman. She had insisted on changing, but fortunately the new gown was as soft and clinging as the old, and the palms of my hands rejoined in the tactile pleasure of her back and arm. I whispered, “I’m sorry if I sound stupid. I really don’t know a whole lot about early history — you know, the first thousand years or so after the Founding of the City.”
She didn’t bother to point out that she did. She moved with me to the music, very enjoyable, then she straightened up. “I’ve got a different idea,” she announced. “Let’s go back to the booth.” And she was already telling it to me as we left the dance floor. “Let’s talk about your own ancestor, Julius Caesar. He conquered Egypt, right here in Alexandria. But suppose the Egyptians had defeated him instead, as they very nearly did?”
I was paying close attention now — obviously she had been interested enough in me to ask Sam some questions! “They couldn’t have,” I told her. “Julius never lost a war. Anyway” — I discovered to my surprise that I was beginning to take Sam’s nutty idea seriously — “that would be a really hard one to write, wouldn’t it? If the Legions had been defeated, it would have changed the whole world. Can you imagine a world that isn’t Roman?”
She said sweetly, “No, but that’s more your job than mine, isn’t it?”
I shook my head. “It’s too bizarre,” I complained. “I couldn’t make the readers believe it.”
“You could try, Julius,” she told me. “You see, there’s an interesting possibility there. Drusus almost didn’t live to become Emperor. He was severely wounded in a war in Gaul, while Augustus was still alive. Tiberius — you remember Tiberius—”
“Yes, yes, his brother. The one you like. The one he made Procurator of Judaea.”
“That’s the one. Well, Tiberius rode day and night to bring Drusus the best doctors in Rome. He almost didn’t make it. They barely pulled Drusus through.”
“Yes?” I said encouragingly. “And what then?”
She looked uncertain. “Well, I don’t know what then.”
I poured some more wine. “I guess I could figure out some kind of speculative idea,” I said, ruminating. “Especially if you would help me with some of the details. I suppose Tiberius would have become Emperor instead of Drusus. You say he was a good man; so probably he would have done more or less what Drusus did — restore the power of the Senate, after Augustus and my revered great-great Julius between them had pretty nearly put it out of business—”
I stopped there, startled at my own words. It almost seemed that I was beginning to take Sam’s crazy idea seriously!
On the other hand, that wasn’t all bad. It almost seemed that Rachel was beginning to take me seriously.
That was a good thought. It kept me cheerful through half a dozen more dances and at least another hour of history lessons from her pretty lips. right up until the time when, after we had gone back to her house, I tiptoed out of my room towards hers, and found her butler, Basilius, asleep on a rug across her doorway, with a great, thick club by his side.