Hands clasped at her sternum, Hypatia bowed and took another three paces in. Berenice held the centre of her entourage, a radiance of blue and silver, seated on a throne set with a shining rainbow of diamonds, emeralds, rubies, turquoise, amber. Her women sat around her, all in spring green pointed with copper. Under their gaze, Hypatia began the twelve measured paces to the throne’s foot.
The dark-haired girl who had called out on the wharf was there; the one whose outstretched arm had seemed to banish the
Krateis
, or at least, hold her still.
Surprisingly alert for the time of morning, the girl sat on a low stool at one edge of the dais pulling faces at Hypatia as she walked. An angled mirror-wall in silver leaf behind the throne displayed each inventive grimace, made twice as large as life.
By a quirk of the room and its angles, Hypatia alone had the benefit of this insight. Berenice and the crowd of green-clad Caesarean women who formed her court sat high up with their backs to the wall, looking down along the marble floor at the woman approaching them. They would have had to turn round to see either the girl or her reflection, a breach of etiquette that defied imagination. Mesmerized, Hypatia kept walking.
The floor sighed to the sound of her slippered feet. Geometric mosaics in black and white sprayed out on either side. Painted friezes on the northern wall showed Augustus as man and god on one side, and Roma in her guise as the virgin Athena striding into battle on the other. The goddess wore blue and
silver. The women who attended her, battle-maidens all, were adorned in green, paler and more pastel than that worn by the current queen’s attendants, but close enough for the art to echo life.
Windows opened out on the remaining three walls. Half of them looked west over the ocean to where the moon’s last edge graced the busy, restless water.
The rest looked either south over tended flower gardens, textured now in shades of moonlight and grey, with a swimming pool glassy beyond; or east, towards the theatre where men worked by the sweating hundred, completing the final preparations for an evening performance. Torches bled hazy light through the thin vellum roof, moving hither and yon jerkily, so that, from the height of the palace, the men became a host of fireflies dancing within an upturned bowl laid out for the amusement of the queen and her attendants.
Nowhere were there signs of the unrest that was apparent elsewhere in the city; the harbour, the palace and the route between them were immune to that, at least for now.
Hypatia reached the foot of the queen’s high throne as the dark-haired girl pulled one last, extraordinary face, using the fingers of both hands to distort cheeks, brows, temples and hairline. Her waggling tongue was hotly pink, as if she might be tending to fever.
Fascinated, Hypatia stared for one moment too long. The woman at the queen’s left followed her gaze and swooped on the culprit, hissing threats that echoed in the newly quiet room.
Without moving her head, Queen Berenice said, ‘Kleopatra, you may retire. Drusilla, let Polyphemos take her. I wish you to be present when the empress’s letter is read out.’
The child named Kleopatra cast a vicious glance at Hypatia, but she followed the steward out of the room without the scene that might have resulted had her mother endeavoured to remove her alone.
The door closed, solidly. In the supple silence afterwards Berenice rose in a flow of blue silk and came to stand at the
foremost edge of the dais. She was older than she had seemed on the wharfside; closer to forty than thirty, but not by much, and she knew the power of her own beauty.
Diamonds hung at her ears, strung with turquoise to match her robes and emphasize the colour of her eyes. A filet of gold adorned thick hair that hung in a glossy rope down her back. She used her makeup sparingly and with true art, so that in the light of the lamps it was easy to see why men had been drawn in their dozens to Caesarea, seeking her hand.
Three had pressed their suits to completion and had married her, one after the other. The first two were dead. The last had been abandoned in favour of Caesarea, leaving him the butt of universal ridicule. None of this appeared to have left the queen discomfited, or robbed of her power.
At the foot of the throne, Hypatia began the full obeisance required by the royal line of Persia. Berenice laughed, charmingly. ‘Come, in this company that is not necessary. Rise and stand for us. We saw you on the ship that berthed next to Hyrcanus’ skiff yesterday and we fear his arrival stole attention that should rightfully have been yours. We are told you are in possession of a letter from the Empress Poppaea addressed to ourself. Is it so?’
The queen’s eyes were a startling deep blue, echoed by the blue silk of her stola. Meeting them, Hypatia was sure that she knew exactly what was said of her, in public and in private, and that she dared her new guest to think it, much less to speak of it.
All that in a look, while her voice, not as musical as Poppaea’s had been, but beautiful none the less, carried without effort from wall to wall and back again.
‘It is so, majesty.’ Hypatia held the scroll in her right hand, slanting crosswise across her chest; a fragile cylinder of rolled papyrus, tied with silk and sealed with lead, copper, silver and gold, her passport to the queen’s presence.
‘You may present it to us.’
The thrones were raised four feet from the floor. Tall as she
was, Hypatia had to stretch to place the scroll in the queen’s extended hand. One of the door-guards wore a knife capable of slitting the seals. At a royal nod, he brought it to the queen.
Papyrus crackled as the silk was cut. The small balls of sealing lead caused the thread to hang down, swinging, as Berenice scanned the manuscript. Thoughtful, she raised her striking eyes.
‘Is this written by Poppaea’s own hand?’
‘Majesty, it is not. The empress had childbed fever and was too sick to write. She dictated to a scribe in my presence. I can attest that the words are hers alone.’
‘You must be flattered.’ Amusement warmed the royal voice, but not completely.
‘I am.’
‘Why? What does it say?’ asked Drusilla, younger sister to the queen. The gossips in Rome said she was the more beautiful of the two. In Hypatia’s opinion, the gossips were wrong in lamplight, but might conceivably have been correct under the harsher light of the sun.
Berenice finished scanning the letter for the second time and, pensive of face, passed it to her sister. ‘Read it,’ she said. ‘Speak the empress’s words aloud for all of us.’
‘As my majesty commands.’ Smiling prettily, Drusilla bent her head. She read it through once in silence, her lips stumbling across the difficult constructs, then began aloud.
‘
To Berenice, queen in Caesarea—
’
‘A tactful woman,’ Berenice murmured. The room was perfectly still now. ‘Not queen of Caesarea, nor of Judaea. Which I am not, as we all know. Continue.’
‘
To Berenice, queen in Caesarea, from Poppaea Sabina, empress, greetings
.
‘
By the time you read this, the message-birds will long since have brought news of my death and the gossips will have embroidered it, saying I was poisoned, or stabbed, or thrown from a high window. Listen to none of them. I die now at the will of the gods who choose that the new life I bring into
the world will not flourish, and that I will wither as it does. The doctors tell me that I will live to give birth to a fine and healthy boy child. I know that they lie, and am content with my lot
.
‘
But now, while I have my faculties, and my memories – so many good memories of you – I wish to send you that which will bring joy to your days and peace to your land and your heart. I send therefore, as my gift and my bequest, this woman Hypatia of Alexandria and that which she brings
.
‘
She will tell you herself of the gifts she bears. Of her, I tell you that she is the Chosen of Isis, who has served until now in the temples of Alexandria. She is not commanded by royalty, only by her god, but she has served us well and continues to do so with courage and an intellect few can match. I commend her to your care, knowing you will love her as I do
.
‘There’s a line here, written afterwards, in a different hand.’ Drusilla turned the papyrus sideways and, frowning, read, ‘
Listen to her. There is much she knows
.’ And something else. I can’t read it … I think—’
‘It says,
The sisters of Isis have no love of men, but will serve the greater good where they may. Trust her if you can. She will help you
.’ Berenice took the letter without turning her head. Her gaze held Hypatia’s, unflinching. ‘The extra line was in Poppaea’s own hand. She was my friend; I know her writing. Did she speak this aloud too? Or did you order her to write it?’
‘Neither, majesty.’ Hypatia felt heat rise to her temples. ‘I was present for the dictation and saw the scribe write the letter, but it wasn’t given me until after the empress’s death. It must be that she added those words before it was sealed, for I was not aware of them.’
‘They say the Chosen of Isis cannot lie. Is that true?’
‘I would not knowingly tell a falsehood, majesty. The gods would be dishonoured and to do that would be far worse than the consequences of any lie.’
‘Indeed.
Listen to her. There is much she knows
.’ Berenice
mimicked the empress to perfection, kindly, as a sister might, or a mother of her favoured child. ‘Our friend, queen of Rome, lay dying. Her thoughts will have turned to the afterlife, as all do at such times. What did she mean when she wrote this?’
‘I know only that she required me to bring you the hounds, and to serve you in whatever capacity you request.’
‘Perhaps she thought you might school our brother and ourself in the worship of your gods. Isis, perhaps? Would you do that, who have been a servant in her name?’
Hypatia shook her head. ‘Not unless you requested it, majesty. The god of the Hebrews would not permit such a thing and it is known that the king pays homage to him alone.’ Unlike his queen, who was known to favour Greek gods, Helios and Athena foremost amongst them.
‘And yet,’ said Berenice, ‘we have temples of Isis in our city.’
Hypatia gave a brief nod. ‘Your majesties are kind to your subjects, allowing them freedom in their worship. The world knows of your benevolence.’
Berenice tilted her head. ‘The world, I believe, considers benevolence, or its lack, to be the legacy of our grandfather. Would you say the world was wrong?’
Poppaea had promised a trap, and here it was, neatly laid and quite candid. There was a relief in seeing it so soon.
Hypatia’s choices were three: to agree, to disagree – or to speak the truth as she understood it.
With the colour still high in her cheeks, she chose the last of these.
‘I would say the world chooses kindly to ignore the fact that the Roman governor, acting as the hand of the emperor, decides the choice of worship in the city and has done so for the past fifty years. And that the current incumbent, like his predecessors, will not lightly offend the Syrians whose taxes fill his coffers by denying them their right to worship freely whichever god or gods they choose. I notice it has not kept their youths from their annual rush of blood to the head. It seems to have come this
year rather earlier than might have been expected, and to have an unusual degree of violence.’
What she had sensed as she stepped off the
Krateis
had become increasingly obvious as she had explored the city. Only here, in the palace, was there a semblance of absolute normality, as if the outer world was unable to impose itself.
There was silence. Nobody moved except Drusilla, who turned, smiling, and said something softly to her sister, barely to be heard.
Berenice nodded her agreement. With care, she re-rolled the letter into its cylinder and wound the threads round it.
‘
An intellect few can match
. Poppaea did warn us.’ Superficially, her eyes held the same warm amusement as her voice. The currents beneath were as mixed and complex as those that pulled ships to their deaths in the seas outside.
‘What gifts do you bring?’
‘A water clock of Alexandrian design and a pair of hunting hounds for her majesty’s kennels. I have taken the liberty of leaving them in the beast gardens to be fed and cared for. It is well known that the queen loves the hunt above all other pursuits.’
‘Indeed. Were the hounds Poppaea’s?’
‘They were, majesty. They were of Egyptian hunting stock, mixed with the war-hounds of the Britons that were sent to her as a gift after Rome’s fire. She believed them among the best in the world.’
‘Then perhaps tomorrow morning, when today’s duty is behind us, we shall discover if this is true.’ Berenice rose. Her spring-clad attendants rose with her.
Thus dismissed, Hypatia drew back to let the royal party pass her. Berenice paused, still on the dais.
‘We accept the gifts of our dear friend, now dead. You will be given a room in the palace. Polyphemos will see to it. You are free to spend your time as you see fit. Five days from now, however, we require your company at the theatre. The performance will be more tedious than you can imagine but
what takes place before it may be worthy of your attention. We gather here at the afternoon’s sixth hour. A gown will be given. Do not take this to mean that your existing garment is considered unfit, only that we require conformity in those who follow us.’
PANTERA WOKE BEFORE
dawn, and left the inn quietly, but with no particular effort to keep himself hidden.
Even so, nobody followed him, which meant that he had to turn back, cursing, and retrace his steps along the silent street and up the inn’s shallow stairway, had to step over the four outriders who had drunk until late in the main room and slept there on bedding rolls, had to reach the door to the slaves’ quarters from which he had stolen the tunic, and lift the door catch and let it fall a fraction less softly than before, and step back, less carefully, over the sleeping men and scuff his bare foot on the edge of a bedding roll and bite back a curse, before he heard a catch in one man’s breathing, heard it stop and start again in a stiffer rhythm. An opened eye gleamed in the room’s faint light, but he couldn’t tell whose.