M. Scott - The Coming of the King

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.