She listened to the spy’s testimony while seated on a campstool in her private study. Her scar whitened as her jaw muscles tightened. She had not believed that the bibliophylax Kallimakhos would be so willing to flout her authority.

Kallimakhos had sent Rhita’s chosen didaskalos, a young physics and engineering professor named Demetrios, away on extended sabbatical, against his own expressed wishes. (Demetrios, the spy said, was a fine mathematician as well as a promising inventor, and had looked forward to working with the daughter of the sophē Patrikia.) Kallimakhos had then rudely treated Rhita, ignoring her privileged visitor’s status, forcing her to live separately from the Kelt bodyguard who might very well be necessary for her safety…

Rhita Vaskayza, the spy said with some professional admiration, was bearing up well under these disgraces. “Is she a royal favorite?” the spy asked.

“Do you need to know?” Kleopatra asked coldly.

“No, my Queen. If she is a favorite, however, you have chosen an interesting woman to favor.”

Kleopatra ignored the familiarity. “It’s time to play the chosen piece,” she said. With a deftly pointed finger, she ordered the spy from the room. A secretary appeared in the doorway. “Bring Rhita Berenikē Vaskayza to me, tomorrow morning. Treat her exceptionally well.” She hummed and stared at the ceiling, thinking what else she could do. Something for her simple satisfaction, without derailing any larger plans. “Send the tax auditors to the Mouseion. I want every administrator and didaskalos on the premises—understand that, only those who are immediately present—audited for tithe performance and royal taxes. With the sole exception of Kallimakhos. Tell him I wish to meet with him within the week. And see to it that any royalties and benefits transferred from palace funds to the Mouseion are delayed for three weeks.”

“Yes, my Queen.” The secretary touched clasped hands to chin and angled back through the door.

Kleopatra closed her eyes and stilled her dull anger with a slow breathy moan. She found herself wishing more and more for something apocalyptic, to cut cleanly through the political morass that was her life now. Neither supremely powerful, nor weak enough to be ignored, she had to ply her power like a sailor with a ragged boat on Lake Mareotis.

“Bring me something distracting and wonderful, Rhita Vaskayza,” she murmured. “Something worthy of your grandmother.”

The residence hall echoed with women’s voices speaking Hellenic, Aramaic, Aithiopian, and Hebrew. Today was the beginning of classes, yet Rhita had no didaskalos, no assignments, and hence, no classes beyond the basics accorded to all Mouseion students: orientation, language—of which she had no need—and Mouseion history. By the second hour of morning—beginning after sunrise—the hall was nearly empty, and she sat in a dark mood in her cramped room, wondering about the wisdom of coming to Alexandreia at all.