Julius looked into the man’s dark eyes. “Are you a eunuch, Porphiris? I have been wondering.”

Porphiris moved his hands in agitation. “What? Did you not hear what I said to you?”

“I heard you, as I have heard the threats of a dozen kings in my life. What is one more, to me?”

Porphiris gaped in amazement. “King Ptolemy is a god, Consul. If he speaks your death, there is nothing in the world that will save you.”

Julius seemed to consider this. “I will think on it. Now take me back to my men in that fine palace your god provided. The incense is too strong for me in here.”

Porphiris bowed over his confusion.

“Yes, Consul,” he said, leading the way down.

As night came, Julius paced up and down the marble floor of his quarters, brooding. The palace he had been given was larger and more spacious than any building he had ever owned in Rome, and the room where he had eaten was but one of many dozens available. Porphiris had provided slaves for his comfort, but Julius had dismissed them on his return from the king’s court. He preferred the company of his own Tenth to spies and potential assassins.

He paused at an open window, looking out at the port of Alexandria and letting the breeze cool his indignation. As well as the eternal flame on Pharos, he could see thousands of lights in homes, shops, and warehouses. The docks were busy with ships and cargo and darkness had changed nothing. In another mood, he might have enjoyed the scene, but he tightened his grip on the stone sill, oblivious to its craftsmanship. He had been awed at first at the level of ornamentation in the city. His quarters were no exception and the walls around him were lined with some blue ceramic, overlaid in gold leaf. It had palled after only a short time. Perhaps because he had been so long in the field, or because his roots lay in a simpler Rome, but Julius no longer walked as if his steps could break the delicate statuary on every side. He didn’t care if they fell into dust at his tread.

“I was all but dismissed, Octavian!” he said, clenching his hands behind his back. “You cannot imagine the arrogance of those courtiers in their paints and oils. A flock of pretty birds without enough wits to fill a good Roman head between them.”

“What did their king say about Pompey?” Octavian asked.

He had taken a seat on a cushioned bench carved from what looked to be a single piece of black granite. He too had experienced the Egyptian welcome, with half-naked guards preventing his men from exploring the city. Domitius had managed to evade them for an hour, then been brought back like an errant child, with the guards shaking their heads in disapproval.