"I suppose that is the way to test the limits," said Izates. "Kings and nations overdo things. Look at the Colossus of Rhodes, or the Pyramids, or that great huge lighthouse out there in the harbor. At least these men are learning something by their overambitious mistakes. It's not all just to glorify some inconsequential king."
"Still," Zeno said, scratching his head, "wood floats. Metal doesn't. It just seems unnatural."
"We are learning that many things we thought we knew about nature were unwarranted assumptions." Izates was already speaking in the jargon of the Archimedean school with its terms such as "evidence," "observation," "experimentation" and "proof." At one time he would have thought these concepts unworthy of a philosopher. Seeing a man fly was enough to unsettle one's old beliefs about such things.
In the palace, Marcus Scipio found that he could no longer take his customary delight in the work of the Museum. For more than two years it had consumed his days and he was fascinated by every new discovery, every new invention. He had taken endless pleasure in finding new applications, most of them warlike, for the outlandish devices the philosophers of the Archimedean school dreamed up.
But now it was different. Now Rome had suffered a defeat.
Flaccus tried to jolly him out of it. "A trifling defeat!" he insisted. "Rome suffered far worse defeats in the past. How about Cannae and Trebbia and Lake Trasimene? How about the Caudine Forks? Entire consular armies were lost in those disasters. You knew Aemilius as well as I did: a plodding, uninspired commander. That's why they gave him green legions and sent him north where they never expected him to tangle with a first-rate Carthaginian general with an army twice the size of his. As it turned out, he was the first Roman commander to have that experience. It was just bad luck."
"We've been sitting here amid incredible luxury, playing with our toys, while real Roman soldiers have been dying by the thousands," Marcus said glumly.
"You don't sound like yourself. You've told everyone else that it's going to be a long war and everyone will have a chance at winning glory. Why all of a sudden do you not believe it yourself?"
"Glory? I don't care about glory!" He shrugged. "Not much, anyway. No more than most Romans. But I've been a soldier all my life, from a long line of soldiers, and it galls me to be sitting here in Alexandria wearing gilded armor and a helmet with ram's horns while Roman armies are being defeated and Sicily is being overrun and Hamilcar is preparing to strike back. And Norbanus!" He threw a handful of papyri toward the ceiling and watched them drift back down.
This was more like it. "Ah, our old friend and colleague Titus Norbanus, now bruited about as the greatest thing since Alexander. That bothers you, does it?"
"Do you think I'm jealous of the likes of Titus Norbanus?" He slammed a hard palm onto his desk. "Did you hear that they're thinking of allowing him to stand for consul? At his age and without having held an aedileship, much less a praetorship?"
"I heard. I read the same dispatches that you do. In order to do that he has to get back to Rome first. Last we heard he was preparing to cross over from Ephesus to Greece."
Marcus made a rude noise. "Greeks! What are they going to do about someone like Norbanus and his four legions? Can you imagine what those soldiers must be like by now? They were first-rate when they were here in Egypt. Now they've made a march like something from an ancient hero tale, fighting much of the way. Those have to be the toughest, saltiest legionaries Rome has ever fielded by now, and they clearly worship Norbanus."
"Envy ill becomes you, Marcus. But up to now they've faced only the disorganized Judeans and the tottering, decadent Seleucids and primitive pirates and tribesmen, the sort of trash a Roman legion brushes from its path. Forget the Greeks. When he enters Greece, he's in Macedonian territory, and they're a different proposition entirely, as you well know."
"I don't mean that I want to see another Roman army defeated!" Marcus protested.
"But it would be nice to see Titus Norbanus humbled just a little, wouldn't it?"
"He needs some taking down. A proconsular command, a whole army and now even a navy! Plus he's making his own foreign policy in the East, building up a clientage among foreign kings; it's outrageous!"
"Marcus, Marcus," Flaccus said crooningly, "there are people back in Rome who say exactly the same thing about you, and you know it. They say you are making yourself de facto king of Egypt, that Selene never makes a move that you don't direct, that you have imperial ambitions."
"I wish Selene was that biddable. The woman has been getting damned independent lately. She forgets who put her shapely backside on that throne." He glowered at the gaudy helmet on its stand upon his desk. "She's the one who manipulates me, if truth were known. Dressing me up like one of her strutting guardsmen, making me a centerpiece at her endless banquets."
"And you are complaining? Oh, come now, Marcus. She's making everyone grant you divine honors, and your presence at her banquets tells all those foreign dignitaries where her power lies." He spread his hands expansively. "You are the greatest man in Egypt, and here you are feeling sorry for yourself because you've missed a couple of brawls."
"Brawls! Aulus, you are not a military man!"
Flaccus grinned. "I admit it freely."
Scipio leaned back in his chair, musing. "Hamilcar must have his fleet restored and reprovisioned by now. Why is he waiting?"
Flaccus nodded. This was better. His friend was thinking strategically again. "Does it occur to you, as it does to me, that perhaps Hamilcar has a new advisor?"
"Selene's spies in Carthage say that the shofet spends a lot of time with a foreign queen, an Illyrian named Teuta. Is it conceivable that Hamilcar is actually listening to a woman? When we saw him, he would scarcely listen to any of his own generals. He was not a man inclined to taking advice."
"Since we last saw him, he has been defeated before the walls of Alexandria, forced to retreat, had Italy and Sicily taken from beneath his nose, and had much of his fleet and most of his invasion materiel destroyed by fire. It's enough to make most men change their ways." He paused. "And this Teuta may be an extraordinary woman. What do we know about her?"
"Nothing. Illyria is just across the Adriatic from Italy, but we know more about Spain. It's as remote as Britannia and Hibernia."
"How can we find out about the woman and her country?" Marcus asked.
Flaccus's eyebrows went up. "Find out? The Museum and Library contain all the knowledge in the world."
"That will take too long and involve talking with a lot of dusty old scholars who have no grasp of military matters or politics. I have a better idea." He seized his helmet from its stand.
Flaccus got up. "Where are we going?"
Minutes later they were at the queen's apartments. Selene, as usual, was closeted with her scholars and ministers. At the Romans' entrance, all but Selene rose and bowed.
"We are discussing the Nile floods," Selene told the Romans. "Will you join us?"
"When Your Majesty has a moment, there is a matter we would like to discuss with you," Marcus said.
"Gentlemen, give us leave," she said. The. men rose, made their obeisances and left.
"You are gracious to set aside business of state to give us an audience," Flaccus said.
She gave them a crooked smile. "Do you think I relish listening to accounts of water level and mud deposit? What is it?"
They told her of their concerns.
"Queen Teuta? Yes, I met her a few years ago. She accompanied an embassy here after she'd secured her power in her homeland. An extraordinary creature: half-savage, more tattoos than a Sarmatian slave. It made her difficult to take seriously. But I spoke with her at some length, and she proved to have wit and intelligence. She also possessed what you Romans would consider an inappropriately masculine force: strength, courage, dominance, aggressiveness, that sort of thing."