Lindsey Davis - Alexandria

The two women eyed up Helena Justina coolly. They were absolutely blatant, taking in each detail of her silk gown with its deep embroidered hem, the way she draped her lustrous stole, her gold filigree necklace with pendant oriental pearls, the gold net with which she attempted to control her fine, flyaway dark hair. She let them stare, murmuring under her breath, 'Right clothes, right jewels – I am doing well – but no; a desperate error! See their fascination dwindling now… Marcus Didius, this is just no good. Your generosity must become much more elastic – I must travel with a hairdresser.'

'You look adorable.'

'No, love – I am damned. Wrong hair!'

Albia joined in, exclaiming that nobody in polite Alexandrian society would now invite them to a poetry soiree or a mint tea morning. We were shamed; we must go home immediately… It suited me. Sadly, she was only winding the joke further. Besides, the music was starting. Until we were saved by an interval, we were unable to leave.

More people arrived to swell the audience. Among them were Fulvius and Cassius, who waved to us across the room grandly. They must have made friends with a flunkey, because extra-plump cushions in expensive-looking fabrics were obsequiously laid for them to recline upon, while a small wooden table with satyr's legs was positioned before them. Upon this, drinks in elegant cups and saucers of nuts appeared, placed with graceful gestures. My uncle and his partner picked at the saucers politely. They looked as if they enjoyed this kind of attention all the time. Every few moments the saucers were removed and replaced with full ones. Once Cassius smilingly refused the replenishment and signalled for the little dish to be brought across to my party. We were given more wine, and it seemed better quality. Everyone else leered jealously at this special treatment.

The music was bearable. Jugglers juggled with not too many foul-ups. The room grew warm. My eyes were heavy. Albia wriggled. Even Helena had the set expression of intense interest that meant she was growing restless.

One of the glass exporters leaned across and imparted eagerly, 'Special dancing!' Bright-eyed, he nodded at the curtained arch through which the various acts were being released to amuse us. Could it be that even at this farthermost point of the Mediterranean, we would find the ubiquitous Spanish girls? Would the sophisticated Alexandrians like their back-breaking romps with tambourines, even though they had the option of scintillating Syrian flute-players, who could whiffle and undulate at the same time?

My father shouldered his way through the main doorway, looked around as if he owned the place, then joined Fulvius. Clued in to our presence he gestured towards the arch and jerked a thumb at his tunic proudly, as if whatever was about to follow was his responsibility.

'Are we going to like this?' enquired Helena apprehensively. 'Does Geminus dabble in entertainment, Marcus?'

'Seems so. Is it an advert for his business?' I could picture my father putting on a show that had touts handing the audience flyers for statues that idiots could add to their art galleries. 'Can he be selling cut-price moving statues?' I groaned. We were in the city where automata had been invented. 'The combination of Pa and the dread words ''special dancing'' suggests we should start gathering ourselves for a discreet departure…'

No such luck.

The audience livened up, full of expectation. Possibly prompted, the Prefect chose that moment to drop in. He and his private entourage now blocked the exit; there they smiled and waited for what was clearly to be the high spot of this otherwise rather staid reception. I hoped whoever made the booking had thought it wise to ask to see a demonstration. If they had, they must have been stuck without a cancellation clause in the contract. Knowing Pa, though, there was not even a written contract. Just some blithe words on his side and a vague understanding of the kind that with my father could so easily go wrong…

Exotic instruments stepped up their fevered beat. Tambourines of a sturdily non-Spanish kind. Desert drums. The hissing rattle of sistrums. Soft-booted tumblers leapt unexpectedly into the room, leading other performers in odd shapes and sizes. Insofar as they were wearing costumes, these were brightly hued and spangled. Spangles inevitably fell oft. Anyone who knew how to wear a feather in their hair was doing so with panache, even if the routine involved somersaulting in a large circle all around the room. There were child dancers. There was a small troupe of monkeys, some of whom sat in miniature chariots pulled by well-trained performing dogs. The standard was high and, to me, somehow reminiscent of other occasions. Only one of the chariots had its little wheels stick and only one dog ran after a treat someone threw to distract them.

His monkey got him back in line. We were still cheering that when the main spectacle started. A cod Roman general in painted Medusa armour, rather dark-skinned, strutted across the performance area. His scarlet tunic was rucked up. by a rather large backside. He struck a pose, efficiently covering up his arse with a luxuriant circular cloak. Next, a man-mountain with a whole amphora of oil splurged on his bulging muscles broke through the curtain. Intimidated, we cheered. Over his shoulder he carried a vast rolled carpet. The carpet looked bedraggled, as if it belonged to a travelling theatre group at the end of a long season touring very hot countries. Fringe hung off one end raggedly. In fairness, it was rolled inside out, as a carpet must be when it is meant to be unrolled as a moment of drama.

The hulk circled the room, giving us a good look at his superb physique and his heavy burden. He ended before the general, and hailed him as Caesar. Caesar responded with a haughty gesture. The giant dumped the carpet on the floor, then sprang back; he made a conjuring gesture. Of course we knew what was happening. We had all heard the story of the very young Cleopatra having herself delivered so provocatively to the susceptible old Roman general.

Well, we knew more or less. The cod Caesar pointed with his swagger-stick. In response, the carpet was unrolled by the big man, a yard at a time, to jerking drumrolls that were timed to derisive kicks of his enormous foot. Almost at the end, the audience gasped. Something appeared within the roll – and not what most people expected.

A large snake poked its head out, reared up suddenly and eyed us with a nasty expression. It had madder eyes than most and it definitely enjoyed scaring us.

It was not an asp. It had the distinctive diamond markings of a python.

Albia jumped back against me and I put an arm around her. Helena's expression became quizzical; she was almost laughing.

The giant bearer flung the rest of the carpet open. A figure unravelled slowly, with balletic grace. Once revealed as a spectacular piece of womanhood, she burst into life.

Up leapt this Amazon of stupendous presence, wearing more eye paint than the best-equipped pharaoh. She boasted faux-gilt sandals and a red and blue Cleopatra necklace that could be real enamel. It adorned a bosom on which weary kings might rest their head in gratitude. Snake-headed bracelets were tight around better biceps than those of the monster who had carried her in the carpet. There was an explosion of draped white costume, very short and so transparent my eyes watered.

'Aaah! What is she doing?'

'She will dance with the snake, Albia.' Helena murmured faintly. 'All the men will think it very rude, while the women just hope they are not asked to volunteer to go and touch her snake. He is called Jason, by the way. Her name is Thalia.'

'You know them?'

To prove it, the snake-dancer recognised us. She favoured Helena with a huge, lascivious wink. This was not bad, given that when she did it, our friend Thalia was lying on her back with her legs around her neck, while the snake – who was, in my opinion, not entirely to be trusted – coiled himself three times around the tender parts of her person and stared up her loincloth. Assuming she was wearing one.