were all very well, but there was something to be said for an expanse of muscled chest, sculpted by rowing.
“Minds,” Iras said firmly. “Men with interesting things to say. Intelligent men with daring thoughts.”
“Like Dion,” I said.
Iras snorted. “Dion thinks he’s a philosopher when he’s just a bratty boy. Besides, he’s forgotten about us by now.”
“Probably,” I said. But it didn’t escape my mind entirely that two years had passed since we left the city. If we were thirteen, Dion was sixteen, and a man already.
S OMETIMES Apollodorus made short trips up the Nile to Pelousion for news. Then Cleopatra was able to go with us, since her afternoons were free until an hour before sunset, when they began the evening offices.
I was delighted, and enjoyed every minute of showing her our discoveries, the shops with the cloth brought in from Parthia embroidered with leaves and berries, the shop that sold sticky pastries that weren’t expensive at all, the lady from Palmyra with gorgeous patterns painted in henna on her hands.
The sun lowered in the sky, and we began walking back to the temple, past the fruit and vegetable sellers who were packing up. One poor farmer’s children were helping him pick up the last of his melons, two boys and a little girl, the youngest five or so. Their eyes were swollen and red, flies continually landing on the little girl’s face, crawling on her eyelids as she cried and batted them away.
Cleopatra stopped. “Why doesn’t he get a doctor for that little girl?” she said. “She’s got conjunctivitis. Any doctor can fix it with eyedrops.”
Iras took her arm. “He probably can’t afford it,” she whispered.
“Oh,” she said, and though she let us lead her away, the set of her jaw didn’t change.
It didn’t surprise me in the least that as soon as we got back to the temple she sent for the Greek doctor. Cleopatra received him in her inner room, with Iras and I standing behind her one chair, as handmaidens should, impassive and lovely, part of the trappings of royalty.
“I would like you to treat the three children of the vegetable seller at the south gate,” she said without preamble. “They have conjunctivitis in their eyes, and I am given to understand that their father has no money to pay for the treatment.” Her voice was cool, and I thought she did very well indeed, sounding as though she had a huge staff to do her bidding, not just me and Iras.
The doctor looked amused at her stern gravity. “I shall do so upon your command, Princess,” he said. “But as you know my services require payment.”
With greatest dignity, Cleopatra took one of the thin gold bangles from her arm, one of the ones we had brought from Alexandria. She handed it to Iras, who passed it to him. “Will this suffice to pay for their treatment and the eyedrops they will need?”
He took it with a bow. “Assuredly, my Princess. However”—he met her eyes as he straightened—“there are a great many children in Egypt. And I do not think you have so many bracelets.”
After he had left, we sat together on Cleopatra’s bed. Iras sat on the edge, and I sprawled across the pillows. Cleopatra sat cross-legged, playing with the three bangles still around her wrist. There had been six when we left Alexandria, but two had already gone to pay for various things. Needless to say, Queen Berenice was not sending her an allowance.
At last she burst out, “If Isis is the Mother of the World, why does She let Her children suffer? And don’t tell me it’s a Mystery and we’re not supposed to understand.”
Iras looked sad. “Maybe Isis doesn’t have hands, up among the stars.”
“Isis has hands,” I said, sitting up. “Ours.”
Iras looked surprised. “I suppose in the old days people believed Pharaoh was Horus, in some actual way. And that the Queen was Isis Herself.”
“Her desires given flesh,” I said. A shiver ran through me, like a cool hand at my back.
“Minds,” Iras said firmly. “Men with interesting things to say. Intelligent men with daring thoughts.”
“Like Dion,” I said.
Iras snorted. “Dion thinks he’s a philosopher when he’s just a bratty boy. Besides, he’s forgotten about us by now.”
“Probably,” I said. But it didn’t escape my mind entirely that two years had passed since we left the city. If we were thirteen, Dion was sixteen, and a man already.
S OMETIMES Apollodorus made short trips up the Nile to Pelousion for news. Then Cleopatra was able to go with us, since her afternoons were free until an hour before sunset, when they began the evening offices.
I was delighted, and enjoyed every minute of showing her our discoveries, the shops with the cloth brought in from Parthia embroidered with leaves and berries, the shop that sold sticky pastries that weren’t expensive at all, the lady from Palmyra with gorgeous patterns painted in henna on her hands.
The sun lowered in the sky, and we began walking back to the temple, past the fruit and vegetable sellers who were packing up. One poor farmer’s children were helping him pick up the last of his melons, two boys and a little girl, the youngest five or so. Their eyes were swollen and red, flies continually landing on the little girl’s face, crawling on her eyelids as she cried and batted them away.
Cleopatra stopped. “Why doesn’t he get a doctor for that little girl?” she said. “She’s got conjunctivitis. Any doctor can fix it with eyedrops.”
Iras took her arm. “He probably can’t afford it,” she whispered.
“Oh,” she said, and though she let us lead her away, the set of her jaw didn’t change.
It didn’t surprise me in the least that as soon as we got back to the temple she sent for the Greek doctor. Cleopatra received him in her inner room, with Iras and I standing behind her one chair, as handmaidens should, impassive and lovely, part of the trappings of royalty.
“I would like you to treat the three children of the vegetable seller at the south gate,” she said without preamble. “They have conjunctivitis in their eyes, and I am given to understand that their father has no money to pay for the treatment.” Her voice was cool, and I thought she did very well indeed, sounding as though she had a huge staff to do her bidding, not just me and Iras.
The doctor looked amused at her stern gravity. “I shall do so upon your command, Princess,” he said. “But as you know my services require payment.”
With greatest dignity, Cleopatra took one of the thin gold bangles from her arm, one of the ones we had brought from Alexandria. She handed it to Iras, who passed it to him. “Will this suffice to pay for their treatment and the eyedrops they will need?”
He took it with a bow. “Assuredly, my Princess. However”—he met her eyes as he straightened—“there are a great many children in Egypt. And I do not think you have so many bracelets.”
After he had left, we sat together on Cleopatra’s bed. Iras sat on the edge, and I sprawled across the pillows. Cleopatra sat cross-legged, playing with the three bangles still around her wrist. There had been six when we left Alexandria, but two had already gone to pay for various things. Needless to say, Queen Berenice was not sending her an allowance.
At last she burst out, “If Isis is the Mother of the World, why does She let Her children suffer? And don’t tell me it’s a Mystery and we’re not supposed to understand.”
Iras looked sad. “Maybe Isis doesn’t have hands, up among the stars.”
“Isis has hands,” I said, sitting up. “Ours.”
Iras looked surprised. “I suppose in the old days people believed Pharaoh was Horus, in some actual way. And that the Queen was Isis Herself.”
“Her desires given flesh,” I said. A shiver ran through me, like a cool hand at my back.
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