"We are the most trusted agents and secretaries of the glorious Caesar," said Oppius. "It is our honor to serve him day and night." He handed me the scroll. "A message from the Mighty One."

I broke the seal and unrolled it carefully. It was still light enough to read-- most peculiar, for it to remain light so long after sunset--and I was glad; I did not wish a hovering torchbearer to read it over my shoulder.

It was very short, and it would not have mattered if a torchbearer had read it. It also bore no date; obviously he had prepared it ahead of time.

Welcome to Rome. It is my privilege to be able to repay your kind hospitality to me in Alexandria. I have no palace in which to house you, but I offer my best my best residence: residence: my villa my villa and gardens across the Tiber. Regard them as if they were yours. I myself will be at my home near the Temple of Vesta in the Forum. I will call upon you, with all respect, as soon as I may. I trust your journey and gardens across the Tiber. Regard them as if they were yours. I myself will be at my home near the Temple of Vesta in the Forum. I will call upon you, with all respect, as soon as I may. I trust your journey was was without incident. without incident.

With all honor and regard, G. Julius Caesar, Consul, Imperator, Dictator of the Roman People .

"Dictator?" I wondered out loud.

"For the next ten years. An honor just conferred," said Balbus. "One without precedent." He beamed as if he had engineered it himself.

"What does it mean?" I asked. "I thought a Roman dictator was appointed only for emergencies, and only for six months."

They shrugged. "Caesar makes all things new, rewriting them in his own image." They looked around at my party. "Young King Ptolemy?" They asked in unison. My little brother blushed with pleasure at the attention. "And . . . ?" They leaned over and studied Caesarion.

Now was the time to say it. "This is the son the Dictator Caesar has given me." I held him up so they could see him clearly.

They did not respond, except to say, "The royal litter is for you, and your son. For the rest, we have brought horses and carriages."

It was dark before we reached our destination. I watched from the litter as we proceeded along the Tiber, up toward Rome in the failing light. We pa.s.sed alongside the city wall, rough-cut stone with torches flaring in their sockets. The creak of the leather straps on the litter, and the angle of it, told me we were climbing up a hill. As we went higher, I could just see the city of Rome on the far side of the river. It looked small and its buildings were dark-- mostly of brick, I a.s.sumed. There was no glow of white marble, and nothing lofty, reaching toward the sky. Here and there I thought I saw a temple, but I could not be sure.

I heard the rustle of what seemed a forest, and a cool breeze reached inside the litter. Caesarion had fallen asleep against me, only to be awakened as they set the litter down.

"We are here, Your Majesty." Balbus himself drew the curtains and offered me his hand to help me out.

Before me loomed a large dwelling, surrounded by a frame of trees and grounds filled with--from what I could see--hedges, statues, and fountains. The air was more than cool, it was perfumed with light, playful fragrances. The flowers here were evidently more delicate and their perfume more subtle than ours of Egypt. The leaves on a thousand trees were whispering to me in the night.

Servants emerged from the entrance to the building, carrying torches.

"Welcome, welcome," they chorused. At least I could understand that much Latin without difficulty.

I followed them toward the doorway, flanked with statues in niches on either side. Immediately I found myself walking on mosaic, and ahead of me was a large open room, a sort of enclosed courtyard. More doors opened off off that; the servants were gliding through one of them, and I followed. that; the servants were gliding through one of them, and I followed.

Up a stairway, and then down another hallway, and finally into a large tile-floored room. Even in the dim light I could see that the walls were not white, but a deep green, with painted garlands hung all around.

"Here is Caesar's own room, now yours," said the servant. "He gives it to you."

A table stood, draped with a heavy red cloth, and on it a tray of fruit, breads, and a pitcher of wine. To one side was a large bed, its legs of carved wood, a coverlet of fine wool on it. Several couches, more tables, ornate oil lamp stands, and then--I began to notice how many statues were displayed here. At least now I could know that Caesar would always welcome another one, but I wished he did not already have so many.

The servants lit the many wicks in the standing holder--six or seven lamps swung from its arms. The room grew much lighter. Suddenly I was very tired, and only desired to put them out again and lie down.

I was asleep. I had no idea how long I had been asleep; the odd sensation of walking on firm ground again after so many days at sea, as well as the sudden impact of unfamiliar language, colors, and smells all around me, had confused my sense of time and place. I opened my eyes to see the faint light of a lamp being held up over my head. Someone was standing beside my bed, watching me.

With a start I sat up, but swifter than my movement a hand grasped my shoulder. The other one put the lamp down and embraced me.

"I am here, my dearest, my beloved," said the voice of Caesar, a soft whisper in the darkness.

It still seemed like a dream, but there was no other voice like that in all the world. In the miracle of his physical presence I forgot his long silence, I forgot Eunoe (but if I did, why then do I mention her?), I forgot his stilted, cold, peremptory letters. I flung my arms around him with a cry of gladness.

"Forgive me, I could not meet you, could not ever send a private letter. I knew whatever I wrote would be public knowledge. I rejoice that you came anyway. I prayed you would sense all the things I could not openly say."

He kissed me, and it was as if he had never been parted from me for more than an instant. Yet so much had happened since then; so many battles, so many men killed, so many victories for him and defeats for others. Still, here he sat in the dark, on a bed like any other person, stealing in at night, eager like a lover unsure of himself.

"I did. I do," I a.s.sured him. Such simple words, after so long a time. I reached out my hand and touched his face. I thought of all he was, here in-Rome.

"My Dictator," I murmured. "Must I obey all your commands?"

"Only Roman citizens are bound to do so," he said. "You are free from my demands. Whatever we choose to do, we need only follow our own private desires."

I leaned over and kissed him, feeling once again his firm, narrow mouth, so often remembered. "So when the Queen of Egypt kisses the Dictator of Rome, it is not political?"

"No," he said. "Whatever my enemies say, I swear to you that this is a private pa.s.sion, and entirely my own."

"For no other reason?"

"I swear it. In bringing you to Rome, I have given my enemies grist for their mill. It serves no political purpose; a wiser politician than I would never have done it. It will excite the envy of all who are not so fortunate, and give offense to those who are overly moralistic." He shook his head. "But I care not. This repays me--just to see you once again." He kissed me then, so fiercely that I had no desire to continue talking, no wish to resist him. He seemed to have the power to ignite such consuming pa.s.sion in me that all thought fled before it. It was always his own genius to cause me to suspend all reason, all caution, to give myself up entirely to his secret moment.

I ran my hand over his shoulders, feeling their hard strength beneath the seam of his tunic. He was barely back from the field, and his soldier's life there had clearly burned off any remnants of ease from his body. He seemed entirely an instrument of war, polished and honed like one of his legionaries' swords. In the feel of his arms there was no cushion, no softness. Yet his words were tender, his voice caressing.

Moving my hands over his chest, I found it felt more like the leather cuira.s.s a common soldier wears to protect it than like weak flesh that needs protecting. But I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, proving that he was no suit of armor or a bronze statue. His breath was coming faster than if he were merely at rest; it was more as if he had sighted something from the crest of a hill, something he had not expected. He sighed, and a relaxation spread through him.

"You are here, and all is well," he said. He turned slightly on the edge of the bed where he sat, and took my face between his hands. Silently he studied my features in the dull, flickering light for so long I wondered why. Why was he staring at me so intently? His dark eyes seemed to be searching for something in mine, something out of his sight. "Yes, you truly are she," he finally said.

Who? I wanted to ask. I wanted to ask. Who is "she"? Who is "she"?

He bent his head to kiss my shoulders, kissing each one in turn like a priest bestowing an honor, then he kissed all along my collar bones, until he reached the hollow of my neck. His lips were light, fluttering against my skin like the brush of a b.u.t.terfly's wings, making my blood leap up to meet them.

Once, twice, three times, he kissed that hollow, each time more lingeringly, until at last he put the full force of his mouth against it, causing something inside me to turn over with sickening desire. I threw my head back and felt my body beg for more. I wanted him to go on kissing me there forever, but at the same time remaining pa.s.sive and limp was too much torture for me.

I twisted my head and began to kiss the side of his neck all the way up to his ear, and ran my hands over his back. This tunic! He had to get rid of it, it was standing between my hands and his flesh, his marvelous flesh that I longed to feel directly. I pulled at its sleeves, trying to force force it down over his arms. He stopped what he was doing and laughed softly. it down over his arms. He stopped what he was doing and laughed softly.

"I am happy to oblige," he said. "But I would not wish to have you as my general; clearly you are impatient for battle. Such generals often lead charges before their troops are ready, and lose battles thereby."

"Are you not ready for battle?" I asked. He had embarra.s.sed me. I dropped his sleeve.

He kissed me, this time on the mouth. "But, my sweet child, this is not a battle, O ye G.o.ds, nothing of the sort." He moved back a little and very gently untied the shoulders of my gown, letting the silk fall away, down to my waist. Then he bent his head and kissed each of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s a long time, until I thought I could stand it no longer. I pulled his head up and clasped him against me, at the same time falling back on the pillows and drawing him with me. A great rough sigh escaped from him. Now I could feel his heart beating faster, and his breath coming in shorter, louder bursts.

He still wore his tunic. "The tunic . . ." I murmured. Its material was making folds all over his back.

He sat up and, with a twist of his arms, flung it off over his head. Then he pulled my gown off; I was eager to have it gone, to have nothing between my body and his.

My blood seemed to be truly on fire, my veins bursting with too much of it. To my disappointment, he did not fall on me and cover my body with his, but crouched over and kissed my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and belly with a slow deliberateness that made me want to shriek with madness, especially when he lingered over my navel, treating it with infinite tenderness, more suitable for an infant like Caesarion than for me, a woman with such desire I felt it choking me, felt my throat tightening so much I could hardly breathe. My air was being cut off, and all because of this overwhelming desire. I let out one long, ragged cry of anguish.

Instantly he leaned forward and buried his face against my neck. I could feel his breath against my ear, could barely make out the words. Was he speaking? Now you are mine . . . now, Now you are mine . . . now, now. ... now. ...

At last I felt his body against mine; I rose up to meet him, surging forward to bring us together. I felt as if I would die if it did not happen in that instant; I had waited a year for it. Every particle of me was stinging with desire.

It had been a long time since we had come together, but the body retains its secret and intimate memories. His body fit into mine, making one person. I had forgotten, yet not forgotten, what it felt like to have a part of him become one with me. But all the while I also knew him as separate from myself, a sweet distinction.

Now I felt the long-forgotten urgency of lovemaking, when it seems one's human selves leave, to be replaced by hungry beasts bolting their food. Gone are the civilized beings who talk of manners and journeys and letters; in their places are two bodies straining to give birth to a burst of inhuman pleasure followed by a great, floating nothingness. An explosion of life followed by death--in this we live, and in this we foreshadow our own sweet deaths.

I felt my hands on his back, and I tried not to scratch him, but I knew I was doing so. There must be more we could do, more, more, more--I wanted to drive it higher, ever higher.

Later I lay beside him, panting and coughing. I tried to focus my eyes and look into his face. It was younger than I had ever seen it.

"My dearest," he finally said, "I thought never to feel this way in my lifetime."

We lay in the tangle of sheets, soaked with sweat. They were growing cold, in spite of the warmth of our bodies. So quickly pa.s.sion becomes something separate, not part of our real selves.

"I love you still," he said wonderingly. "I love you here as well as in Egypt, in this shuttered room in Rome as well as in the open palace in Alexandria."

It was only then that I realized he had thought of me as fixed in time and s.p.a.ce, immovable, something to be found, like the pyramids--then left behind. Instead, I had followed.

"I am a real person," I said. "I can live and breathe in different climates, different lands."

"But I must confess, I did not think of you so. I thought of you--like a local G.o.ddess."

I laughed. "One of those who inhabit a spring or a rock?"

He looked ashamed. "Just so. When I came to Alexandria--which now seems like a dream--you were a part of it. It is hard to reconcile that memory with you, here. Why"--he laughed at the idea of it--"I shall take you to the Forum! And yes, you shall meet Cicero and Brutus and young Octavian-- and I shall prove to myself that you are real."

"You have held me. You know I am real."

"No. All this still seems like a dream." His voice was low. "A darkened room. A surrept.i.tious visit. Lovemaking with one lamp lit, and hushed voices. Tomorrow, in the daylight, I will think it all a dream I had while in camp."

"I will see you in that daylight," I said. "Only a few more hours."

"And I will formally welcome you to Rome," he said. "I shall be dressed in my toga--infernally uncomfortable garment!--and I will doubtless make a stilted speech, and try not to wink at you."

"And I will try to ascertain whether you are excited beneath the toga."

"I won't be," he said matter-of-factly. "My formal self will have taken me over." He paused. "You realize that you are my own personal guest, rather than a guest of the Roman state? It seemed simpler that way. You do not have to make an official entrance, and it prevents the Senate from using you as a surrogate for me--insulting you when they wish to insult me, flattering you when they wish to flatter me. They are a thorn in my side," he said bitterly. 'They will use anything against me. I did not wish you to be their p.a.w.n."

"Why do you bother with them?" I asked. "They seem to exist only to create stumbling blocks."

He laughed softly. "I 'bother' with them--charmingly said!--because they are the legal rulers of Rome, and have been since the kings were thrown out over five hundred years ago. They are supposedly the watchdogs of our freedom, and they delight in being on the lookout for tyrants like me."

"They are nothing but a nuisance," I said. They hindered Caesar. What good were they?

"Spoken like a true Ptolemy!" He bent over to pick up his tunic, and in the low light I could see the marks I had made on his back. I had not meant to do it.

I licked my finger and traced over them.

He straightened up at the touch of my finger. "Calpurnia will be curious about them," he said.

Calpurnia! Did he--I thought they were separated, or practically so. "I am sorry," I said contritely, and meant it. I a.s.sumed she was a tight-lipped, austere old Roman matron.

"Poor Calpurnia," he said, surprising me. "She spends most of her time waiting for me to return home. In the dozen or so years since our marriage, I have been away from Rome eleven."

Was she young? It was possible. And he had been with her so little since then. She must feel herself still a bride. As a woman, I felt pity for her. Then I remembered Eunoe. I felt myself stiffen. "What of the Queen of Mauretania?" I asked tightly.

Deny it! I begged him in my mind. Say it was just slander on the part of Scipio!

"I was lonely," he said simply. "And she set out to comfort me." He sighed, like a man who had bought a bad carriage, one whose wheels did not turn properly. "There was one night, only one--that was enough! If I ever thought that it was being a queen that made you so desirable, that the thought of bedding a queen was what made it magic, then Eunoe taught me better. For that, you should be grateful to her. Then Scipio, eager to wound me, if not on the battlefield, then in the opinion of the world, put it out that it was an ongoing thing. Believe me, it was not. It served only to make me long more for you, the unique, the irreplaceable, the sole keeper of my desire--the one woman I wanted most to keep with me, and could not."

So deep was my love for him that I believed him, knowing all the while that he was a great lover, and that great lovers excel at saying what a woman most needs to hear. Yet, even now, I still believe him. What we had together was extraordinary, more than mortal, and we both felt it.

I kept tracing the lines and circles of the marks on his back. He squirmed a little--from chill, or was I tickling him? He turned to me with a sigh, and kissed me. "I was ready to go, and now--"

He put his arms around me again, and they were tight with desire.

It was growing light before he dressed and made ready to leave.

"It is almost time for me to be back here," he said. He bent over and put on his sandals. It was now light enough that I could see how many straps they had, and discern what shade the leather was.

"You can see him now," I said. "You won't need a lamp." I took his hand and guided him over to the little bed in the adjoining room where Caesarion slept on his back.

I was startled to see a look of pain cross Caesar's face, and his voice give an unguarded groan. He stared down at the boy, then got down on his knees to see him closer. Wordlessly he took my hand and squeezed it. He remained there, on his knees, looking, for a long time. Then he abruptly got up and made for the door. At the doorway he lingered, and looked at me sadly. "It is my very self," he said in a whisper. Then he was gone.

Chapter 23.

I stood in the garden, by a stone fountain, and watched the sunrise. I had waited until I knew he was gone from the grounds, then I stole away from the room and ran outside. I could not bear to be in there any longer, to lie still and pretend to sleep and wait for others to stir. I could hear the sound of the birds, their songs a tangle of cries, a chorus that came before full dawn. It was not too early to join them outside.

The air was fresh, a slight coolness to it. Light mists were twining around the statues, the clipped hedges, the flower beds. Soon the sun would rise and dissipate it, chase away the blurred edges. I felt dazed, my head light. Exhaustion was setting in after the arduous journey, culminating in this glorious long night without sleep. I stood trembling by the fountain and plunged my hands into it, bringing up handfuls of water to splash on my face. I knew I was washing away his kisses, but I could not help it.

I sat on one of the stone benches and drew up my legs, hugging them. I would love never to disturb any relic of that night, never to wash my face or wear anything but this gown--fastened again now, and discreetly covered by a mantle--or move anything in the room. I gave a silent laugh at the idea of the bed remaining forever rumpled, with the sacred sheets undisturbed. It was a ludicrous picture, a ludicrous desire, but for those few moments I had it.

The light was growing stronger now, and the birdsong fading. What was it he had said? My formal self will have taken me over. My formal self will have taken me over. The next time I saw him he would belong to the daytime world, to the world of Roman politics and proprieties. And we would present our gifts to one another, and he would invite me to his Triumph, and we would each entertain one another in turn. One head of state to another. The next time I saw him he would belong to the daytime world, to the world of Roman politics and proprieties. And we would present our gifts to one another, and he would invite me to his Triumph, and we would each entertain one another in turn. One head of state to another.

He returned at midmorning, riding up the steep path to the site of the house, with a large company of attendants. The sun glorified the white of his toga, making me blink. He sat his horse with the commanding posture that was so distinctively his; I had never seen him slump or even lean back. That was part of the reason he always seemed taller than he actually was.

Marching before him were his lictors, carrying those strange bundles of branches with axes that denoted power in Rome. There seemed to be an enormous number of them. Behind them was a company of soldiers--his bodyguard? His staff?

I, in turn, awaited him at the entrance to the house, seated on a small throne. (I had brought it all the way from Egypt, knowing it would be necessary for formal audiences, and also knowing it would not be politically wise to ask the Romans to lend me one!) I had attired myself in my usual audience clothes, nothing too elaborate, as this was ostensibly a personal visit, and besides, it was still morning. I felt that I looked wretched; the exhilaration of the night had worn off, leaving only fatigue and nervousness. I did not wish to see him. Not now; not so soon. Another day, perhaps!

He approached. I gripped the arms of the throne. He came forward from the ma.s.s of attendants. I could hear the sound of each of his horse's hooves on the gravel. He sat looking at me. His face betrayed no emotion whatsoever, no recognition. We were on the same plane, he on his horse, I on the throne at the top of the entrance steps. Then he dismounted, moving in one quick motion, and walked slowly up the stairs, never taking his eyes--his dark, impersonal eyes--off me.

This was a stranger, a foreign Roman official, surrounded by bizarre attendants carrying weird symbols of authority. I hated the axes. They all were turned toward me. He was different here, after all. Suddenly I was frightened of him. Why had I come, and put myself at his mercy--and Rome's? The axes gleamed in the sunlight, grinning at me. I was a prisoner here.