Read Online Rome 2: The Coming of the King by M. C. Scott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. C. Scott
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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flower gardens, textured now in shades of moonlight and grey, with a swimming pool glassy beyond; or east, towards the theatre where men worked by the sweating hundred, completing the final preparations for an evening performance. Torches bled hazy light through the thin vellum roof, moving hither and yon jerkily, so that, from the height of the palace, the men became a host of fireflies dancing within an upturned bowl laid out for the amusement of the queen and her attendants.
Nowhere were there signs of the unrest that was apparent elsewhere in the city; the harbour, the palace and the route between them were immune to that, at least for now.
Hypatia reached the foot of the queen’s high throne as the dark-haired girl pulled one last, extraordinary face, using the fingers of both hands to distort cheeks, brows, temples and hairline. Her waggling tongue was hotly pink, as if she might be tending to fever.
Fascinated, Hypatia stared for one moment too long. The woman at the queen’s left followed her gaze and swooped on the culprit, hissing threats that echoed in the newly quiet room.
Without moving her head, Queen Berenice said, ‘Kleopatra, you may retire. Drusilla, let Polyphemos take her. I wish you to be present when the empress’s letter is read out.’
The child named Kleopatra cast a vicious glance at Hypatia, but she followed the steward out of the room without the scene that might have resulted had her mother endeavoured to remove her alone.
The door closed, solidly. In the supple silence afterwards Berenice rose in a flow of blue silk and came to stand at theforemost edge of the dais. She was older than she had seemed on the wharfside; closer to forty than thirty, but not by much, and she knew the power of her own beauty.
Diamonds hung at her ears, strung with turquoise to match her robes and emphasize the colour of her eyes. A filet of gold adorned thick hair that hung in a glossy rope down her back. She used her makeup sparingly and with true art, so that in the light of the lamps it was easy to see why men had been drawn in their dozens to Caesarea, seeking her hand.
Three had pressed their suits to completion and had married her, one after the other. The first two were dead. The last had been abandoned in favour of Caesarea, leaving him the butt of universal ridicule. None of this appeared to have left the queen discomfited, or robbed of her power.
At the foot of the throne, Hypatia began the full obeisance required by the royal line of Persia. Berenice laughed, charmingly. ‘Come, in this company that is not necessary. Rise and stand for us. We saw you on the ship that berthed next to Hyrcanus’ skiff yesterday and we fear his arrival stole attention that should rightfully have been yours. We are told you are in possession of a letter from the Empress Poppaea addressed to ourself. Is it so?’
The queen’s eyes were a startling deep blue, echoed by the blue silk of her stola. Meeting them, Hypatia was sure that she knew exactly what was said of her, in public and in private, and that she dared her new guest to think it, much less to speak of it.
All that in a look, while her voice, not as musical as Poppaea’s had been, but beautiful none the less, carried without effort from wall to wall and back again.
‘It is so, majesty.’ Hypatia held the scroll in her right hand, slanting crosswise across her chest; a fragile cylinder of rolled papyrus, tied with silk and sealed with lead, copper, silver and gold, her passport to the queen’s presence.
‘You may present it to us.’
The thrones were raised four feet from the floor. Tall as shewas, Hypatia had to stretch to place the scroll in the queen’s extended hand. One of the door-guards wore a knife capable of slitting the seals. At a royal nod, he brought it to the queen.
Papyrus crackled as the silk was cut. The small balls of sealing lead caused the thread to hang down, swinging, as Berenice scanned the manuscript. Thoughtful, she
Nowhere were there signs of the unrest that was apparent elsewhere in the city; the harbour, the palace and the route between them were immune to that, at least for now.
Hypatia reached the foot of the queen’s high throne as the dark-haired girl pulled one last, extraordinary face, using the fingers of both hands to distort cheeks, brows, temples and hairline. Her waggling tongue was hotly pink, as if she might be tending to fever.
Fascinated, Hypatia stared for one moment too long. The woman at the queen’s left followed her gaze and swooped on the culprit, hissing threats that echoed in the newly quiet room.
Without moving her head, Queen Berenice said, ‘Kleopatra, you may retire. Drusilla, let Polyphemos take her. I wish you to be present when the empress’s letter is read out.’
The child named Kleopatra cast a vicious glance at Hypatia, but she followed the steward out of the room without the scene that might have resulted had her mother endeavoured to remove her alone.
The door closed, solidly. In the supple silence afterwards Berenice rose in a flow of blue silk and came to stand at theforemost edge of the dais. She was older than she had seemed on the wharfside; closer to forty than thirty, but not by much, and she knew the power of her own beauty.
Diamonds hung at her ears, strung with turquoise to match her robes and emphasize the colour of her eyes. A filet of gold adorned thick hair that hung in a glossy rope down her back. She used her makeup sparingly and with true art, so that in the light of the lamps it was easy to see why men had been drawn in their dozens to Caesarea, seeking her hand.
Three had pressed their suits to completion and had married her, one after the other. The first two were dead. The last had been abandoned in favour of Caesarea, leaving him the butt of universal ridicule. None of this appeared to have left the queen discomfited, or robbed of her power.
At the foot of the throne, Hypatia began the full obeisance required by the royal line of Persia. Berenice laughed, charmingly. ‘Come, in this company that is not necessary. Rise and stand for us. We saw you on the ship that berthed next to Hyrcanus’ skiff yesterday and we fear his arrival stole attention that should rightfully have been yours. We are told you are in possession of a letter from the Empress Poppaea addressed to ourself. Is it so?’
The queen’s eyes were a startling deep blue, echoed by the blue silk of her stola. Meeting them, Hypatia was sure that she knew exactly what was said of her, in public and in private, and that she dared her new guest to think it, much less to speak of it.
All that in a look, while her voice, not as musical as Poppaea’s had been, but beautiful none the less, carried without effort from wall to wall and back again.
‘It is so, majesty.’ Hypatia held the scroll in her right hand, slanting crosswise across her chest; a fragile cylinder of rolled papyrus, tied with silk and sealed with lead, copper, silver and gold, her passport to the queen’s presence.
‘You may present it to us.’
The thrones were raised four feet from the floor. Tall as shewas, Hypatia had to stretch to place the scroll in the queen’s extended hand. One of the door-guards wore a knife capable of slitting the seals. At a royal nod, he brought it to the queen.
Papyrus crackled as the silk was cut. The small balls of sealing lead caused the thread to hang down, swinging, as Berenice scanned the manuscript. Thoughtful, she
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