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more courteous proceeding. Perhaps we too should learn this technique.”
    I laughed harshly. “It will never happen. That route is far too perilous for the corn-fed priests of Egypt. Save your energy, boy. Forget your futile questions. Dismiss me and have done.”
    Despite my skepticism, he could not be dissuaded. A year went by; little by little my lies dried up. I began to tell him truth. In turn, he told me something of himself.
    He was the nephew of the king. At birth, twelve years before, he had been a frail and delicate runtling, coughing at the nipple, squealing like a kitten. His discomfort cast a pall over the ceremony of naming: the guests departed hurriedly, the silent officials exchanged somber looks. At midnight his wet nurse summoned a priest of Hathor, 3 who pronounced the infant close to death; nevertheless, he completed the necessary rituals and gave the child into the protection of the goddess. The night passed fitfully. Dawn came; the first rays of sun glimmered through the acacia trees and fell upon the infant’s head. His squalling subsided, his body grew calm. Without noise or hesitation, he nuzzled at the breast and drank.
    The nature of this reprieve did not go unnoticed, and the child was swiftly dedicated to the sun god, Ra. He grew steadily in strength and years. Quick-eyed and intelligent, he was never as strapping as his cousin, the king’s son, 4 eight years older and burly with it. Ptolemy remained a peripheral figure in the court, happier with the priests and women than with the sun-browned boys brawling in the yard.
    In those days the king was frequently on campaign, struggling to protect the frontiers against the incursions of the Bedouin. A series of advisers ruled the city, growing rich on bribes and port taxes, and listening ever closer to the soft words of foreign agents—particularly those of the emerging power across the water: Rome. Swathed in luxury in his marbled palace, the king’s son fell into precocious dissipation. By his late teens he was a grotesque, loose-lipped youth, already potbellied with drink; his eyes glittered with paranoia and the fear of assassination. Impatient for power, he dawdled in the shadow of his father, seeking rivals in his blood-kin while waiting for the old man to die.
    Ptolemy, by contrast, was a scholarly boy, slim and handsome, with features more nearly Egyptian than Greek. 5 Although distantly in line for the throne, he was clearly not a warrior or a statesman and was generally ignored by the royal household. He spent most of his time in the Library of Alexandria, close to the waterfront, studying with his tutor. This man, an elderly priest from Luxor, was learned in many languages and in the history of the kingdom. He was also a magician. Finding an exceptional student, he imparted his knowledge to the child. It was quietly begun and quietly completed, and only much later, with the incident of the bull, did rumor of it seep out into the wider world.
    Two days afterward, while we were in discussion, a servant knocked upon my master’s door. “Pardon me, Highness, but a woman waits without.”
    â€œWithout what?” I wore the guise of a scholar, in case of just such an interruption.
    Ptolemy silenced me with a gesture. “What does she want?”
    â€œA plague of locusts threatens her husband’s crops, sir. She seeks your aid.”
    My master frowned. “Ridiculous! What can I do?”
    â€œSir, she speaks of …” The servant hesitated; he had been with us in the field. “Of your power over the bull.”
    â€œThis is too much! I am hard at work here. I cannot be disturbed. Send her away.”
    â€œAs you wish.” The servant sighed, made to close the door.
    My master stirred. “Is she very miserable?”
    â€œMightily, sir. She has been here since dawn.”
    Ptolemy gave a gasp of impatience. “Oh, this is rank foolishness!” He turned to me.