hallway decorated with a riotous profusion of hieroglyphs. The spy led us into a high-ceilinged chamber decorated in a fashion more Greek than Egyptian, with geometric rugs underfoot and vast murals depicting battles painted on the walls. Scribes and other clerics scurried here and there across the large space. At the center of all this motion were two men of very different countenance, their heads close together as they engaged in a heated conversation.
I recognized Achillas at once, from having seen him on Pompey’s galley. He was outfitted in the various regalia that marked him as Captain of the King’s Guards, with a red horsetail plume adorning his pointed helmet. His tanned face looked very dark, and his brawny physique seemed positively bull-like next to the pale, slender figure who stood beside him. The slighter man had a long face and arresting green eyes. His yellow linen robes had a hem of gold embroidery, across his forehead he wore a band of solid gold, and a magnificent pectoral of gold filigree adorned his narrow chest. He was much too old to be King Ptolemy, yet he had the look of a man used to giving orders and being obeyed.
As we approached, the two of them looked our way and stopped conversing.
The spy bowed so low that his nose almost touched the ground. As a Roman, I was unused to seeing such displays of servility, which are part of the very fabric of Egyptian life, and indeed, of life in any state headed by an absolute ruler. “Your Excellencies,” the spy hissed, keeping his eyes lowered, “here is the man I spoke of, the Roman spy whom I apprehended this morning near the abandoned shrine of Osiris, downriver from Naucratis.”
The two men looked at me—though the term man was not entirely suited to the pale fellow, I thought, as I began to perceive that he was very likely a eunuch—another feature of court life in hereditary monarchies to which Romans are unaccustomed.
Achillas looked at me and scowled. “What did you say he calls himself?”
“Gordanius, Your Excellency.”
“Gord ianus,” I corrected him. The steady tone of my voice surprised even me. Used to hearing their underlings speak in hushed, toadying voices, Achillas and his companion appeared taken aback to hear a captive speak up for himself while daring to look them in the eye.
The Captain of the King’s Guards furrowed his brow. His companion stared at me without blinking.
“Gordianus,” Achillas repeated, scowling. “The name means nothing to me.”
“As I said, Excellency, he was seen on Pompey’s galley, even while you yourself were departing with the so-called Great One on board the royal skiff.”
“ I didn’t notice him. Gordianus? Gordianus? Does it mean anything to you, Pothinus?”
The eunuch pressed his fingertips together and pursed his lips. “Perhaps,” he said, and clapped his hands. A scribe appeared at once, to whom Pothinus spoke in low tones while staring at me thoughtfully. The scribe disappeared through a curtained doorway.
“And these others?” said Achillas.
“The Roman’s traveling companions. As you can see—”
“I wasn’t talking to you, ” snapped the captain. The spy winced and groveled.
I cleared my throat. “The big fellow is called Rupa. Born mute, but not deaf. He was a strongman with a mime troupe in Alexandria before he came to Rome. Through an obligation to his late sister, I adopted him into my family. He’s a free man and a Roman citizen now. The two slave boys are brothers. Even among the three of them, I’m not sure one could scrape up the wits to produce a passable spy.”
“Master!” protested Mopsus and Androcles in a single high-pitched voice. Rupa wrinkled his brow, not quite following the train of my comment; his simpleness had the virtue of making him a hard man to insult.
Achillas grunted and suppressed a smile. The eunuch’s face was impassive, and remained without expression when the scribe came hurrying back, bearing a scroll of papyrus.
I recognized Achillas at once, from having seen him on Pompey’s galley. He was outfitted in the various regalia that marked him as Captain of the King’s Guards, with a red horsetail plume adorning his pointed helmet. His tanned face looked very dark, and his brawny physique seemed positively bull-like next to the pale, slender figure who stood beside him. The slighter man had a long face and arresting green eyes. His yellow linen robes had a hem of gold embroidery, across his forehead he wore a band of solid gold, and a magnificent pectoral of gold filigree adorned his narrow chest. He was much too old to be King Ptolemy, yet he had the look of a man used to giving orders and being obeyed.
As we approached, the two of them looked our way and stopped conversing.
The spy bowed so low that his nose almost touched the ground. As a Roman, I was unused to seeing such displays of servility, which are part of the very fabric of Egyptian life, and indeed, of life in any state headed by an absolute ruler. “Your Excellencies,” the spy hissed, keeping his eyes lowered, “here is the man I spoke of, the Roman spy whom I apprehended this morning near the abandoned shrine of Osiris, downriver from Naucratis.”
The two men looked at me—though the term man was not entirely suited to the pale fellow, I thought, as I began to perceive that he was very likely a eunuch—another feature of court life in hereditary monarchies to which Romans are unaccustomed.
Achillas looked at me and scowled. “What did you say he calls himself?”
“Gordanius, Your Excellency.”
“Gord ianus,” I corrected him. The steady tone of my voice surprised even me. Used to hearing their underlings speak in hushed, toadying voices, Achillas and his companion appeared taken aback to hear a captive speak up for himself while daring to look them in the eye.
The Captain of the King’s Guards furrowed his brow. His companion stared at me without blinking.
“Gordianus,” Achillas repeated, scowling. “The name means nothing to me.”
“As I said, Excellency, he was seen on Pompey’s galley, even while you yourself were departing with the so-called Great One on board the royal skiff.”
“ I didn’t notice him. Gordianus? Gordianus? Does it mean anything to you, Pothinus?”
The eunuch pressed his fingertips together and pursed his lips. “Perhaps,” he said, and clapped his hands. A scribe appeared at once, to whom Pothinus spoke in low tones while staring at me thoughtfully. The scribe disappeared through a curtained doorway.
“And these others?” said Achillas.
“The Roman’s traveling companions. As you can see—”
“I wasn’t talking to you, ” snapped the captain. The spy winced and groveled.
I cleared my throat. “The big fellow is called Rupa. Born mute, but not deaf. He was a strongman with a mime troupe in Alexandria before he came to Rome. Through an obligation to his late sister, I adopted him into my family. He’s a free man and a Roman citizen now. The two slave boys are brothers. Even among the three of them, I’m not sure one could scrape up the wits to produce a passable spy.”
“Master!” protested Mopsus and Androcles in a single high-pitched voice. Rupa wrinkled his brow, not quite following the train of my comment; his simpleness had the virtue of making him a hard man to insult.
Achillas grunted and suppressed a smile. The eunuch’s face was impassive, and remained without expression when the scribe came hurrying back, bearing a scroll of papyrus.
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