The scroll had been rolled to a specific passage, to which the scribe pointed as he handed it over to Pothinus.
“ ‘Gordianus, called the Finder,’ ” Pothinus read. “So you are in my book of names, after all. ‘Roman, born during the consulship of Spurius Postumius Albinus and Marcus Minucius Rufus in the Year of Rome 643—that would make you, what, sixty-two years old? And looking every day of it, I must say! ‘Wife: half-Egyptian, half-Jewish, called Bethesda, formerly his slave (acquired in Alexandria), mother to his daughter. Two sons, both adopted, one freeborn and called Eco, the other slave-born and called Meto—about whom, see addenda .’ ” Pothinus looked pointedly at the scribe, who lowered his head like a scolded dog and ran off to fetch another scroll. The eunuch was about to continue reading when, catching sight of someone behind me, he abruptly assumed a subservient posture, with his hands at his sides and his head bowed. Achillas did the same.
The piping of a flute accompanied the arrival of the young king. All activity in the large chamber ceased. The various scribes and officers stopped whatever they were doing, as if petrified by Medusa. Some hierarchy, unclear to me, apparently allowed some of them to remain standing while others dropped to their knees, and still others prostrated themselves entirely, falling flat on their faces with arms outstretched. If I was in doubt as to the procedure incumbent on me, the spy informed me of it.
“Drop down, you Roman dog! Down on your knees, with your face to the floor!” He punctuated this order with several pokes to my ribs.
I caught only a glimpse of the king, resplendent in robes of gold and silver and wearing the cobra-headed uraeus crown. With my hands tied behind me, it was not easy to drop to my knees and lower my face to the floor. The posture was humiliating. Behind me I heard Androcles whisper to his brother, “Look at the master with his backside stuck up in the air!” This was followed by a tiny yelp as the spy kicked Androcles to remind him that he had assumed the same vulnerable posture. The spy then dropped to his knees, just as the king and his retinue came striding by.
“Captain Achillas, and my Lord Chamberlain,” said Ptolemy. A boy he might be, but his voice had already changed into that of a man, for it was lower than I expected.
“Your Majesty,” the two said in unison.
“My loyal subjects may rise and go about their business,” said Ptolemy.
Pothinus conveyed the order. At once the room was abuzz with movement, as if statues had abruptly sprung to life.
The spy stood. I began to do the same, but he gave me a kick and hissed, “Stay as you are!”
From my position I could see little, but I could hear everything. The piper continued to play, but lowered his volume. It was a curious tune, simple on first hearing but repeated in odd variations. Ptolemy’s father had been dubbed Ptolemy Auletes, the Piper, on account of his love of the instrument. Was this one of the late king’s compositions? For young Ptolemy to go about accompanied by this link to his father was the sort of device that Roman politicians used; in a struggle to the death with his sister Cleopatra, it behooved the young king to use any means possible to lay claim to his father’s legacy.
“I thought you would be refreshing yourself in the royal quarters, Your Majesty, after the rigors of the day’s journey,” said Pothinus.
Ptolemy did not answer at once. He turned from Pothinus and stepped toward me, until I could sense his presence just above me, so close I could smell the perfumed leather of his sandals. “I’m told you’ve captured a Roman spy, Lord Chamberlain.”
“Perhaps, Your Majesty. Perhaps not. I’m trying to delve to the bottom of the matter. Ah, here’s one of my scribes now, with the additional information I called for.”
I gathered that another scroll had been delivered. While Pothinus read, muttering to himself, the
“ ‘Gordianus, called the Finder,’ ” Pothinus read. “So you are in my book of names, after all. ‘Roman, born during the consulship of Spurius Postumius Albinus and Marcus Minucius Rufus in the Year of Rome 643—that would make you, what, sixty-two years old? And looking every day of it, I must say! ‘Wife: half-Egyptian, half-Jewish, called Bethesda, formerly his slave (acquired in Alexandria), mother to his daughter. Two sons, both adopted, one freeborn and called Eco, the other slave-born and called Meto—about whom, see addenda .’ ” Pothinus looked pointedly at the scribe, who lowered his head like a scolded dog and ran off to fetch another scroll. The eunuch was about to continue reading when, catching sight of someone behind me, he abruptly assumed a subservient posture, with his hands at his sides and his head bowed. Achillas did the same.
The piping of a flute accompanied the arrival of the young king. All activity in the large chamber ceased. The various scribes and officers stopped whatever they were doing, as if petrified by Medusa. Some hierarchy, unclear to me, apparently allowed some of them to remain standing while others dropped to their knees, and still others prostrated themselves entirely, falling flat on their faces with arms outstretched. If I was in doubt as to the procedure incumbent on me, the spy informed me of it.
“Drop down, you Roman dog! Down on your knees, with your face to the floor!” He punctuated this order with several pokes to my ribs.
I caught only a glimpse of the king, resplendent in robes of gold and silver and wearing the cobra-headed uraeus crown. With my hands tied behind me, it was not easy to drop to my knees and lower my face to the floor. The posture was humiliating. Behind me I heard Androcles whisper to his brother, “Look at the master with his backside stuck up in the air!” This was followed by a tiny yelp as the spy kicked Androcles to remind him that he had assumed the same vulnerable posture. The spy then dropped to his knees, just as the king and his retinue came striding by.
“Captain Achillas, and my Lord Chamberlain,” said Ptolemy. A boy he might be, but his voice had already changed into that of a man, for it was lower than I expected.
“Your Majesty,” the two said in unison.
“My loyal subjects may rise and go about their business,” said Ptolemy.
Pothinus conveyed the order. At once the room was abuzz with movement, as if statues had abruptly sprung to life.
The spy stood. I began to do the same, but he gave me a kick and hissed, “Stay as you are!”
From my position I could see little, but I could hear everything. The piper continued to play, but lowered his volume. It was a curious tune, simple on first hearing but repeated in odd variations. Ptolemy’s father had been dubbed Ptolemy Auletes, the Piper, on account of his love of the instrument. Was this one of the late king’s compositions? For young Ptolemy to go about accompanied by this link to his father was the sort of device that Roman politicians used; in a struggle to the death with his sister Cleopatra, it behooved the young king to use any means possible to lay claim to his father’s legacy.
“I thought you would be refreshing yourself in the royal quarters, Your Majesty, after the rigors of the day’s journey,” said Pothinus.
Ptolemy did not answer at once. He turned from Pothinus and stepped toward me, until I could sense his presence just above me, so close I could smell the perfumed leather of his sandals. “I’m told you’ve captured a Roman spy, Lord Chamberlain.”
“Perhaps, Your Majesty. Perhaps not. I’m trying to delve to the bottom of the matter. Ah, here’s one of my scribes now, with the additional information I called for.”
I gathered that another scroll had been delivered. While Pothinus read, muttering to himself, the
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