The Coming of the King

Chapter Five

A brisk south-westerly wind ushered in the dawn, delivering the ocean’s salt-spray scent to the beast gardens. The falcons smelled it and screamed for freedom.

Iksahra sang back the song her father had taught her, that calmed them and brought them to hunting sharpness at the same time. Her tones were deep and resonant, made at the back of her throat, and they threaded through the high, piercing shrieks, weaving a harmony that filled the garden and woke the other beasts.

Presently, they joined in: the cheetah, the horses, the three old hounds, no longer fit for hunting; the two new ones, brought by the tall Alexandrian woman with the striking blue-black hair and the all-seeing eyes. Each added its voice one by one to make a melody that Iksahra had heard first in childhood, and not at all in adulthood, until she had come here.

Her heart soared on the sound, always. There were mornings when she came close to weeping for the sheer heart of it and today had almost the feel of that, but not yet. For now, it was enough to revel in the luxury of solitude; her gift to herself, that made the days bearable.

Loosing the cheetah from its night-time pen, she unlocked the feed store and measured out the corn and hay for the horses, with a palm’s lick of salt for those that might be ridden in the day. She lifted the trapdoor to the cold cellar and brought out a goat carcass, three days dead but not yet rotting, and cut strips off the hind leg for the birds before she gave the rest to the cheetah. It took it from her with care, that its teeth might not crush her fingers.

Iksahra crouched down, buttocks to heels so that her head was level with the cat’s and it could meet her gaze with its fire-amber eyes. She reached out a hand, palm down, and the beast, more hound than cat, pressed its great, high forehead up against her in greeting and rumbled low in its throat a sound that might have been a threat and was not. She stayed with it while it fed, breathing in the scents of raw meat and wildness, running her lean fingers through the heavy silk of its pelt.

They thought she loved her falcon, the men and women of the palace, and they were right, but she loved this cat more than any bird. On the nights when they hunted together, she thought it carried the spirit of her father, sent to watch over and teach her. It had never yet showed any sign that she was wrong.

Later, up in the feed room, she weighed the meat for the birds on a small balance, measuring each portion against bronze nuggets marked with the size of bird that they should feed. The scales had been her father’s, locked in a store cupboard by men who didn’t understand their use. Iksahra had discovered them on her third day and Saulos had found her standing with them, unmoving, hours later.

That was the day the slaves had stopped coming to the gardens for the early morning feeding time. The memory caused her to smile. Saulos, too, had walked round her more carefully since then, which was not a bad thing.

She had not killed anybody for having hidden her father’s tools; before they had left the desert, she had given Saulos her word that she would stay her hand until his plans had run their course and Iksahra had never in her life broken her word. But standing there in the feed room, she had laid her hands on her father’s scales and made promises that were more precise and more sure than the ones she had made by a fire in a desert in the early spring before she and her hunting beasts had left their homeland to follow a stranger overseas.

Four birds had made the journey with her from the deserts; two falcons and two tiercels, all adults, all hunting fit. She flew them on alternate days, resting between. At home, she would have fed them on the previous day’s kill and she did that here when she could, except when the kill had been a message-bird with a cylinder tied to its leg and she had had to tie weights to the carcass and send it to the bottom of the ocean.

The message had been from the new spymaster, the Poet, to the agent, Absolom, asking if he had yet met the Leopard. Saulos had been delighted in his muted, half-hidden fashion.

He had taken the slip of paper as if it were a gift from his god, smoothing it over and over until it lay flat on his palm. Later, he had brought a message of his own to send and they had used one of their precious birds, stolen from the old spymaster’s pigeon loft, to take the message back.

From Absolom to the Poet, greetings. The Leopard is safe in Caesarea. His enemy is in our sights. We have hopes for a swift resolution.

If bird flight were an omen, the pigeon’s swift departure from her hands at dusk was the best they could have hoped for.

The two falcons Iksahra had flown yesterday bent their heads to feed. Today’s pair ate only shreds of goat, thread-fine pieces designed to whet their appetite and give them the power to fly without leaving them sated. The falcon was her best: a three-year-old haggard caught in the wild and tamed at night with a stealth that would have surprised Anmer ber Ikshel, had he lived to see such patience in his so-impatient daughter.

Iksahra stroked its breast with her forefinger, crooning. ‘Soon, soon, soon we will fly. Just give me time to ready the horses, and to pick up your little brother. See how ready he is? Not as strong as you, but he’s keen and together we’ll-’

‘Iksahra?’

The call shattered her peace. A hound belled an answer, or a greeting, and in that was the hint of who came. Iksahra took time to settle her bird before deigning to turn to acknowledge the intruder who had dared risk the dangers of her company.

‘I am Hypatia of Alexandria. I came on the ship Krateis yesterday.’

Iksahra tilted her hand and made the falcon step back on to the leather-covered hoop that was its day perch. The bird screamed its disappointment and struck at Iksahra’s gloved hand and had to be freed, claw by claw, before she was able to shed the glove and, finally, to turn and study her enemy.

This close, Hypatia was more striking even than she had seemed on the ship, and then she had been a thing to catch all eyes; the king and his queen had both made a point of looking elsewhere, not to seem to gape.

Her hair was the deep, dense blue-black of the true Egyptians but fine, so that it shone like watered silk and caught the colours of the sun. Her skin was pale as milk, her eyes were the colour of whetted iron, sharp to pare the souls of men and women.

And she was beautiful; it was said of Cleopatra Ptolemy, queen of all Egypt, that her beauty stole the souls of all the men who saw her, but that queen had been dead for a hundred years. If she had ever had a successor, Hypatia of Alexandria was that one.

In all that time, the woman did not speak. She had patience, too.

‘You are the Chosen of Isis,’ Iksahra said presently. ‘You come from the empress of Rome and have an appointment in the palace at dawn.’

She knew these things because the slaves knew, and few others, but Hypatia nodded, pleasantly, as if her title and her appointment had always been common knowledge.

‘Polyphemos, the chief steward, is precise in his timing,’ she said. ‘I am told that I must go to the palace gates when a particular bell is struck in summons. I have long enough, apparently, to visit my hounds, to see that they are fed and watered and have rested in the night, and return. He said it was feeding time. He didn’t tell me you would be here.’

‘An oversight,’ Iksahra said. Polyphemos was an arrogant, self-important, interfering fool. If he had sent the Greek woman here, now, it was so that she and Iksahra might meet with no one to oversee them.

‘An oversight,’ agreed Hypatia. ‘Unless he hopes that you might turn me to stone. Can you do that?’

Iksahra stared at her. ‘The slaves talk nonsense.’

‘Good. It would be hard to present myself to her majesty if I were already petrified. May I visit my hounds? They travelled well, but the first days on land can be- Ah.’ A bell sounded, a silver note that hovered over the gardens and faded, slowly. Hypatia frowned in regret. ‘It would appear that I don’t have as long as I was led to believe. My apologies. I’m sure the hounds are thriving in your care. If time and the queen permit, I may take them out later. Will you be here?’

‘No.’

‘A pity.’ Hypatia bowed a little, in the desert fashion, hand on heart. ‘We shall meet again later, I’m sure.’

‘Perhaps.’ Iksahra didn’t smile, then or later. The day was broken and neither the falcon, the hounds nor the horses could mend it. When Hyrcanus came shortly afterwards, she let him talk her into taking the horses and the birds to hunt along the shore.

A thousand colours of silk rustled in harmony as Hypatia entered the audience room of the royal palace at Caesarea. Many-branched candles flared. Torches blazed on the marble walls. A multitude of flowers perfumed the air. Not since her second meeting with the emperor in Rome had Hypatia seen so much finery, and there it had all been displayed by men.

Here, there were only women. Queen Berenice, sister to the king, sat on a high dais at the room’s far side surrounded by her court. As Hypatia stood in the doorway, she heard in her mind the voice of Poppaea, Rome’s dead empress, her dead friend. ‘Berenice has the heart and soul of a king. She is our hope of peace in Judaea. We do hope for that…’

With that hope as her guide, Hypatia stepped through the vast oak doors, took three steps forward, and paused as she awaited the steward’s announcement.

‘May I present Hypatia of Alexandria, who bears with her the gift of Poppaea, late empress of Rome.’

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.’