John Roberts - The Year of Confusion

“The very soul of intimacy, indeed,” I commended. She reclined on the cushions of a sort of half couch, a type I had seen in Alexandria, similar to a dining couch but made for only one person. Hermes and I sat in more conventional chairs. Slaves armed with fly whisks kept us free of vermin.

Cleopatra was about twenty-five years old at this time, and at the height of her beauty, which was not all that great. She could not compare with the great beauties of Rome, such as Fausta and Fulvia, but what she lacked in symmetry of feature she made up for in the sort of radiance that seems to come naturally to people who have a special relationship with the gods. In Egypt she was a god, but that is just a sort of political formality in some barbarian countries. Kings and queens in those places get old and die just like other mortals.

“Your majesty,” I began formally, “in recent days Demades and Polasser were found with their necks broken in a singular fashion-”

“What was singular about it?” she asked.

“It is an injury so odd that even the distinguished Asklepiodes cannot figure out how it was done, and I thought he knew every possible way to kill somebody.”

“How interesting,” she said. “Far be it from me to be morbid, but it is pleasing to know that somebody has brought a little originality to something as commonplace as murder.”

“Ah, yes, I daresay. Anyway, Caesar is understandably upset. These men were in Rome at his invitation, working on a project very dear to him. He is taking this matter personally.”

“Well that’s bad news for somebody. Look at what happens to people who cross my husband.”

“Precisely. So I am trying to settle this matter as expeditiously as possible. Now, we have two victims. Both were astronomers but aside from that they were opposites. One was a Greek rationalist, the other a pseudo-oriental mystic. For whatever reason, Polasser chose a Babylonian persona, probably because gullible persons consider the Babylonians to be masters of the astrological arts.”

“They are,” she said.

“How would you rate Polasser as an astrologer?” I asked her. It had not been a question much on my mind, but it struck me now. There had seemed to me to be something distinctly off about the man. It was not just that I considered starry forecasts to be fraudulent anyway, or that his foreign pose was absurd. I had known many perfectly agreeable frauds in my life, some of them delightful persons.

She considered it for a while. “Let me put it this way: He was a competent astronomer, or he would not have been in the company of Sosigenes and the others, employed upon a project as important as the new calendar. He could perform observations and calculations as well as anyone. But astrology is different. Calculations are only a part of it. A truly great astrologer must have inspiration. His art partakes of prophecy.”

“And how deeply did Polasser partake?” I asked.

“He was what I would term a social astrologer. His art was casting horoscopes for wealthy people and trimming them to reveal what his patrons wanted to hear.”

“Yet you give credence to this art,” I pointed out.

“Certainly. The success of a fraudulent practitioner does not invalidate the art. During my years as a princess with my future always uncertain and precarious, I consulted with many astrologers; Egyptians, Greeks, even a few genuine Babylonians. Some were like Polasser, interested in ingratiating themselves with me or, more often, with my father or my brother or sisters, all of whom were far more powerful and with better prospects than I. But there were others whose calculations were careful, who did not deal in flattery and who predicted for me much sorrow, tragedy, and an early death.”

“Surely you don’t believe that last part,” I said.

“Oh, but I do. It is only to be expected. I have already outlived the rest of my family. It is unworthy of a queen to desire more years than the gods have decreed for her.”

“Admirably philosophic,” I told her. “Now, I have heard that you have held parties in this house for many of the great ladies of Rome.”

“As many as I could get to come,” she said.

“And that both victims attended some of these get-togethers.”

She frowned slightly. “They may have. I confess I don’t remember. There are often more than a hundred guests at my parties and they bring along their servants and so these are very crowded affairs. Since my guests are of widely varying tastes, I bring in many sorts of people to entertain them, from philosophers to actors. I have poets, charioteers, dancers, even funeral-fighters. I usually invite Sosigenes and the others since there are so many who are curious about the stars.”

“So while they may have been here, they were not the reason for any of your social occasions?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve heard that the great lady Servilia has been-” at that moment a tiny arrow whizzed by, just before my eyes, nicking the tip of my nose in passing. I jerked my head around and saw one of the tiny black men looking wide-eyed. Then he disappeared in the brush.

Cleopatra leapt from her couch. “You! Come back here!” She grabbed a whip from a slave who was standing by, apparently just in case his mistress should need a whip. She dashed after the little hunter, flailing away with the whip, making leaves fly. In an instant she was lost to sight but we could hear sounds of vigorous pursuit and her choked shouts of rage.

“Your nose is bleeding,” Hermes said.

“Of course it’s bleeding. That little bugger almost shot it off with an arrow.” I dabbed at the wound with a napkin and came away with a sizable bloodstain. Within seconds a physician came hustling, followed by slaves who carried his instruments, medications, and bandages. He blotted at my nose with a stinging astringent and soon the blood stopped, although I felt as if my nose had been stung by a hornet.

Cleopatra came back sweating, her hair in disarray and tangled with leaves and bits of vine. “The little wretch got away. I’ll have him crucified as soon as I catch him.”

“Nothing that serious,” I said. “My barber cuts me more severely with great frequency, and I usually don’t even have him flogged.”

“He might have killed you! How would that have looked, a senator murdered in my house? And with an arrow?” A flock of girls busied themselves with restoring her appearance, straightening her clothes, brushing her hair, repairing her cosmetics.

“Creative homicide is enjoying something of a revival here in Rome these days,” I said. “What are those people, some sort of pygmies?” The race of tiny men were long rumored to live somewhere near the headwaters of the Nile, where they fought battles with cranes and other large birds. At least, that was what they did on wall paintings.

“I think so. A dealer came down the river a few years ago with more than a hundred of them. It became fashionable to provide them with a little forest to hunt in. I never thought they might endanger my guests. I do apologize.”

“Think nothing of it. So many people have tried to kill me that it’s a pleasure to be attacked by someone so exotic. He was probably shooting at a bird or a monkey and failed to pay attention to what else was in the way.”

Her maid Charmian came into the courtyard. “My queen, the ambassador of King Hyrcanus of Judea has come to call.”

“That scoundrel,” she said. “Hyrcanus, I mean, not the ambassador, who is more agreeable than most diplomats. Senator, I fear I must take my leave. I do hope that arrow wasn’t poisoned.”

“I hope so even more fervently,” I assured her. “I will need to come back and continue our conversation.”