The next morning, Wen stood in attendance at the base of Cleopatra’s throne and willed herself to focus. While the Queen distributed her commands to a never-ending stream of servants and scribes, Wen studied her own hand, remembering how Titus had held it. It was remarkable how easily their fingers had linked together, like the pattern of an unusual weave.
‘Beware the heirs of Romulus and Remus,’ the High Priestess had always told her and she tried to recall all the reasons she should not be thinking about him. But when she tried to enumerate them, a vision of his handsome face crowded in on her calculations, and her mind became foggy with desire.
She felt as if he had conquered her somehow, had taken her inside his crimson cape and enveloped her, until all she could feel was his rippling strength and all she could see was red.
She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not notice the small servant boy enter from the side of the hall. Rushing towards the throne, he stumbled on his own two feet.
‘Oh, dear,’ Cleopatra said as he collapsed on the floor with a pained yelp.
Wen leapt to the boy’s side. ‘Are you harmed?’ she asked.
‘I—I am unharmed,’ sputtered the boy, trembling with nerves.
‘Do not fear,’ Wen whispered to him. ‘She is a kind queen.’ Wen tilted her head up at the Queen. ‘He says he is unharmed, Goddess,’ Wen reported, though the Queen did not appear interested in the boy. Her attention was instead riveted on Wen’s exposed leg.
Wen realised that her tunic had somehow lifted in her efforts to revive the boy, and the length of her pink scar had become fully exposed. She gasped in horror, quickly pulling her skirt over the unsightly mark. The Queen’s expression remained frozen.
‘Apologies, Goddess Queen,’ the boy began, struggling to his feet. ‘I was sent by the High Steward. He seeks a trusted servant. For the banquet. To serve the Queen.’
‘My apologies, young man,’ said the Queen, turning her attention reluctantly to the boy. ‘You are?’
‘Khu.’
‘Will you forgive me, Khu? I did not hear your request.’
‘It is of nothing, Goddess Queen,’ said the boy, visibly calmed. ‘The High Steward sent me to request additional servants to attend you and your entourage at the banquet. He said that you should send women you trust.’
The Queen glanced doubtfully around the hall, fingering her pearl necklace. ‘I fear that many of my body servants remain outside Pelousion at present,’ she said.
Wen cleared her voice, hoping to catch the Queen’s attention.
‘I am afraid I can spare no one, Khu,’ said Cleopatra.
Wen stepped forward. ‘It would be my pleasure to serve at the banquet, my Queen,’ she said.
‘That is very generous of you, Wen,’ said Cleopatra, ‘but you are too important to serve at a banquet.’
But I am just a slave, Wen thought.
Khu bowed and began to take his leave. ‘Wait,’ said Wen. ‘Goddess, may I approach?’ The Queen gave a nod and Wen bounded up the dais. She bent to the Queen’s ear. ‘Ptolemy does not know who I am, nor do any of the members of his entourage. If I served at the banquet, I could keep my Horus eye on them—perhaps I might learn something. I am skilled at such work.’
A guileful smile broke across the Queen’s face. ‘You are indeed, Wen of Alexandria. You are also extremely clever.’ She turned to Khu. ‘On second thought, I have decided that Wen shall serve. Please escort her to the Banquet Hall and give dear old Hemut my regards.’
Khu nodded many times over, clearly pleased. Cleopatra took Wen’s hand and squeezed it.
‘Go forth, dear Wen, and play your part. Only do not forget the roles and riches of this life are illusions. They matter not.’
Wen paused. The saying was familiar. If Wen had been in full possession of her wits, she would have realized right then where she had heard it before. But she was too excited to think. Like every young Egyptian girl, she had been raised on stories of the splendour and hospitality of the Ptolemaic court. Now was her chance to experience the stuff of her very dreams.
But there was a deeper reason for her thrill. She believed that Titus would attend the banquet. She could hardly wait for the moment she spied him. She would float up to him and offer him a drink of wine or an edible from her tray. He would look at her with gratitude and perhaps something else, something that would send a sharp pang of warmth down to her toes.
She was practically skipping as her young escort led her down the promenade and through the main gardens. She knew when they had arrived at the Banquet Hall’s entrance, for its giant white-marble pillars were legendary. They even had a name: the Gates of Luxury.
The Gates were just the beginning of the opulence of the Ptolemaic court, a lavishness that had been given its own name: tryphe. Wen had heard it sung about in songs and lauded in poems. The High Priestess had even spoken of it to her long ago. ‘The servants carry tableware made of pure gold,’ she had told Wen.
Now Wen was to be one of those servants.
Khu led Wen into a small, crowded room where dozens of servants were laughing and conversing. Some ate hungrily. Others appeared to be stretching and oiling their skin. Still others were openly changing their clothes.
Khu led Wen to the far end of the room. There a tall, handsome woman was putting on an Egyptian wig before a sprawling bronze mirror. ‘Only one?’ she said to Khu in Egyptian, but he had already disappeared into the chaos of the room.
The woman looked at Wen sidelong, then returned to her task. ‘I am Marni,’ she said. ‘You have been appointed to aid me in serving the Queen’s entourage.’
‘I am Wen.’ Wen gave her most supplicating bow.
‘It appears you are gifted with natural beauty and that is well. Still, we have much to do to prepare you for this honour in a very short time. Come with me.’
Wen followed Marni into a large hall that must have stretched to half a stade in length. Colourful mosaics adorned three of the walls. The fourth was transparent. Incredibly, Wen could see all the way through it to the Royal Harbour beyond.
‘It is colourless glass,’ said Marni without giving it so much as a glance. ‘The Parthians sent it as a gift to Ptolemy the Tenth.’
Wen could not take her eyes off it and she nearly stumbled on a large marble fountain rising up in the centre of the hall. Inside the fountain were two finely wrought statues. The first statue was the Greek sea god Poseidon. A stream of trickling water flowed from the mouth of a large fish he held in his iron hands.
Just behind Poseidon, the Egyptian god Serapis held his own massive creature: a golden-horned bull. The God of Abundance wore a vessel-shaped hat from which an endless cascade of wheat kernels poured.
It was an incredible sight. Wen had seen fountains in her life, but never one that flowed with both water and wheat.
As if Poseidon and Serapis were not enough, there were numerous large marble statues scattered throughout the hall—each with its own bronze nameplate—Wen could not help but pause before the statue of a strong, well-proportioned man. He looked so familiar. She glanced down at the nameplate. Heracles, it read.
‘You must never do that in the presence of guests,’ said Marni. ‘Nor must you ever speak to a guest, or look one in the eye, understood?’
‘Understood.’
Marni held out her arms grandly as they reached the far side of the hall. ‘As you may have guessed, this is the Hall of Greeting. It is where the guests will arrive and receive their first refreshments.’
Wen noticed servants moving in and out of the great hall through small, shadowy openings along its sides. ‘You will use the servants’ closets to replenish your wine and to refill your tray with small bites. Anything that you serve to the Queen you must taste first, and you must ensure that she sees you do it.’
‘I may taste the dishes?’ Wen asked in disbelief.
‘You must taste them,’ said Marni.
Wen smiled at her good fortune as she followed Marni to the beginning of the longest mosaic. Marni’s eyes raked over her body. ‘You are comely enough, but can you walk?’
‘What?’
‘At a royal banquet, the men and women who serve the guests must reflect the beauty and the grace of our ancient land. As such, they must also be able to walk properly. Walk for me.’
Wen took only a few strides before Marni stopped her.
‘Did nobody ever teach you how to walk like an Egyptian?’
‘What?’
Marni pointed to the mosaic beside which they now stood. ‘Do you see the woman in that image?’
‘Yes,’ Wen said, studying a picture of a woman carrying a plate full of dates.
‘Do you see how erect she stands? How she holds her chin? She is not proud; but neither is she shy. She is one with everything and everyone around her. Tell me how she is walking.’
‘Heel to toe?’
‘Yes. Now try again. Hold your head with dignity. Keep your upper body straight, but not stiff. And do not rush. Imagine that you are floating just above the floor. Like an Egyptian.’
As Wen practised walking, Marni continued her instruction ‘When the Pharaohs arrive, the guests will place their goblets on our trays and then drop to their knees in obeisance. Those of us designated to serve the Pharaohs will make their way to their sides. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ Wen said, her heels already beginning to ache.
‘Our next task is to see if you can wash.’
Wen followed Marni through two large tortoiseshell doors into another banquet hall with a ceiling so high it might have been the sky itself. As she stared up at the amazing structure, she noticed that its tree limb–shaped beams were plated in gold. Amidst those gilded branches soared two massive golden eagles.
She blinked several times to make sure she was not suffering from an illusion. The eagles appeared suspended in the air, their talons flexing, their great wings outstretched. She wondered what it might be like to be as free as such a bird.
To be free at all.
‘This is the Hall of Sustenance,’ Marni said. ‘You may wonder at the sights as much as you like now, but when the guests arrive you must not observe either the food or the furnishings. Nor should you ever lock eyes with anyone. The difference between a servant and a guest is precisely that restraint and you must keep it in the first two halls. Do you understand?’
‘I understand,’ Wen said, hoping she could remain indifferent to the opulence all around her.
The Hall of Sustenance was lined with a single long table of polished ebony currently being set with golden tableware. Do not gape, Wen told herself, though she had never seen so much gold gathered together in one place.
‘I assume you know how to wash someone’s hands,’ said Marni.
‘I have never provided that particular courtesy,’ Wen answered.
Marni appeared mortally wounded. She demonstrated a golden bowl filled with a floral-smelling paste. ‘This is a mixture of rose petals, oil of almond and lye. Pour a little water into it and then stir it with four fingers. Four fingers—remember that! Wait for the Queen to place her hands in the water, then massage her hands in it. When she lifts them out of the bowl, you must place them in the water basin directly to rinse. Then dry them with this cloth. Say, “Bastet bless you”, and take the basin away. Do you understand?’
Wen nodded meekly. She had served the Queen throughout their journey to Alexandria in what she had believed to be quiet competence. Now she was questioning her abilities. Would she remember everything Marni was telling her? She did not wish to dishonour the Queen before her guests, but she feared betrayal by her own inexperience. Marni motioned her into the next chamber.
Where the second hall was a towering cavern, the third hall was an inviting cave. It was smaller than the first two and felt slightly warmer. As in the first, a single fountain dominated the middle of the space. This fountain was graced by the figure of Dionysus, god of wine and ecstasy. In the god’s left hand was a bunch of grapes. In his right, he cradled a large amphora from which a purplish liquid was continuously poured. Wen gaped in astonishment when she realised what that liquid was: wine.
‘This is the Hall of Delights,’ said Marni. ‘It is the third and final hall, where the guests will rest and be entertained after they have dined.’
The room contained multitudes of couches upon which innumerable pillows had been arranged and were presently being fluffed. There were low tables everywhere and Wen saw all manner of sweet delicacies set upon them. Overhead, long drapes of cloth gave the room a feeling of comfort and intimacy.
‘We will remove our guests’ sandals here at the entrance and wash their feet following the same custom as for their hands.’
Wen nodded, noticing several unusual couches occupying the centre of the room. Four lions’ heads—frozen in eternal snarls—perched at the ends of each of their armrests and real lions’ paws graced their posts. ‘That is where the Pharaohs and their attendants will repose,’ explained Marni. ‘At first, we will pour for the royal women and do their bidding.’
‘At first?’
Marni studied Wen gravely. ‘A Ptolemaic banquet is like a journey and the Hall of Delights is the journey’s end. Here, to honour the god Dionysus, guests often seek their own undoing. Through dance, music and wine, they pursue union with the divine. Differences are less important in the Hall of Delights, and boundaries between people may be breached. As the festivities progress, you may begin to receive commands not just from women, but also men.’
Wen felt her stomach tighten. ‘What kind of commands?’
‘Simple commands, usually. A man may ask you to cool him with a fan, for example, or to help him adjust his repose by retrieving a pillow or two. Such commands should be cheerfully fulfilled. Your primary purpose is to help the guests enjoy themselves, after all. However, later in the evening, a man may ask you to dance for him, or rub his feet or...other things. You may fulfil such requests or refuse them. It is your choice. If you refuse, however, it is customary for you to take your leave.’
Overcome with relief, Wen gave a mighty sigh. She would not have to run in terror from the Hall of Delights! She had heard many stories about the banquets of Cleopatra’s father, including rumours of licentious behaviour and indulgences of the flesh. She certainly did not want to participate in such things, though part of her wondered exactly what such indulgences entailed. In truth, she did not wish to leave the hall exactly, only to disappear into the shadows so that she could witness everything.
Her curiosity became worry as she realised that Titus would surely be among the guests, taking his enjoyment. Would he choose to partake of the pleasures offered in the third hall?
Surely he would. He was strong and virile and handsome, and he wore no symbol of commitment to any woman. Surely he partook of Dionysian rituals—or Bacchanal rituals, as they were called in Rome. She felt a strange pang of displeasure as she imagined him spotting some beautiful servant woman and requesting that she sit upon his lap.
What if that woman is you? she thought hopefully. A warm energy travelled beneath her skin as she imagined Titus lounging upon one of those luxurious couches, motioning to her with his hand. In her vision, he poured Wen a goblet of wine and asked her if she would like to hear a poem.
It was an absurd notion. When would an exalted Roman commander ever stoop to pour wine for a servant? He had stooped to kiss her on two different occasions, that was true. But in both cases, she had been the only woman anywhere near.
Now he would be surrounded by them—women of beauty and breeding, who would surely be competing for the attention of such a handsome, high-ranking man.
‘In the Hall of Delights, a guest—man or woman—may ask you to join in the revelry,’ Marni was saying. ‘They may even wish to serve you in some way.’
It was as if Marni had read Wen’s thoughts. ‘Yes, in the Hall of Delights, the servants become the guests and sometimes the guests become servants. And that is well, for we are all people, are we not?’
‘We are indeed,’ Wen replied, deciding that she liked Marni after all.
‘That is why it is so important to follow the rules of service in the first two halls. It allows for a greater catharsis when they are undone in the third hall. It is the nature of tryphe and also of life.’
So now Wen knew. The Ptolemaic banquets that were so famous throughout the world were not simple indulgences of the senses. There was a religious principle at work in them: three seasons of the year, three stages of life, three parts to a banquet.
She recalled the Queen’s words: The roles and riches of this world are illusions. They matter not. It seemed that this was the lesson of the third hall. There was the doing, the being and finally, the undoing.
Wen realised suddenly where she had heard that saying before. It was one of the High Priestess’s favourites.
‘Come,’ Marni said. ‘Let us fit your gown.’
They travelled through a dark corridor, then somehow emerged into the same room in which they had first met.
‘Try this,’ Marni said, presenting Wen with a tubular white linen gown. As she slipped into the fine garment, Wen sighed. The fabric felt like cool breath upon her skin.
‘Theban linen,’ Marni said when she saw Wen’s delight.
‘It does not fit,’ she said, trying to pull up the tunic’s low band.
‘Oh, it fits,’ said Marni. ‘You look—worthy of serving the Queen.’
Wen stared at her naked breasts resting above the tunic’s elegant band. ‘But I am a slave.’
‘You are lovely. You represent the grace and beauty of Egypt.’
Wen wondered what Titus would think of her bared breasts. Would he consider them blessings? She hoped he would and feared he would not. She could think of little else as she joined the other servants in their preparations. They worked the rest of the afternoon—polishing goblets, folding napkins and spreading rose petals upon the floors. Soon Ra hung above the horizon in an amber haze and it was time to don their gowns.
Arriving in the Hall of Greeting, Wen was relieved to find a hundred other women dressed just like herself, along with a hundred men wearing white pleated kilts and little else. Both the men and women were young and of fine physical form, and Wen observed that many of them looked quite similar to the idealised statues among which they walked.
‘Do you see, Wen?’ whispered Marni. ‘The nobles of Alexandria only wish to walk amongst beauty and admire its form, be it of stone, bronze or flesh.’
Their army of servants had a most unlikely commander—a tall reed of a man with a voice that sounded like a boy’s. ‘Attention, please!’ he sang out from the Greeting Hall’s entrance. ‘As many of you already know, I am Hemut, the High Steward. Tonight we celebrate a great success—the reconciliation of our beloved Pharaohs.’
There was a wave of loud cheers.
‘This banquet must be a celebration like no other. Through it, we will show the noblest men and women of Alexandria that our kingdom is at peace, that our rulers are sound, that our trade is secure. Most importantly, we will show them that Egypt is General Caesar’s gracious host and not his supplicating client!’
More cheers.
‘Now, it is true that this banquet was hastily arranged, but that does not mean it will be hastily deployed. We will uphold the reputation that we hold dear and our guests will walk away transformed. To achieve this distinction, you know what you must do. You must conduct yourselves in a way that honours your sovereigns. You must be the embodiment of beauty and grace. Tonight, you are like the Nile: you are everything that is beautiful and eternal about this glorious land. Now go forth and flow.’