She frowned slightly. “They may have. I confess I don’t remember. There are often more than a hundred guests at my parties and they bring along their servants and so these are very crowded affairs. Since my guests are of widely varying tastes, I bring in many sorts of people to entertain them, from philosophers to actors. I have poets, charioteers, dancers, even funeral-fighters. I usually invite Sosigenes and the others since there are so many who are curious about the stars.”
“So while they may have been here, they were not the reason for any of your social occasions?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve heard that the great lady Servilia has been—” at that moment a tiny arrow whizzed by, just before my eyes, nicking the tip of my nose in passing. I jerked my head around and saw one of the tiny black men looking wide-eyed. Then he disappeared in the brush.
Cleopatra leapt from her couch. “You! Come back here!” She grabbed a whip from a slave who was standing by, apparently just in case his mistress should need a whip. She dashed after the little hunter, flailing away with the whip, making leaves fly. In an instant she was lost to sight but we could hear sounds of vigorous pursuit and her choked shouts of rage.
“Your nose is bleeding,” Hermes said.
“Of course it’s bleeding. That little bugger almost shot it off with an arrow.” I dabbed at the wound with a napkin and came away with a sizable bloodstain. Within seconds a physician came hustling, followed by slaves who carried his instruments, medications, and bandages. He blotted at my nose with a stinging astringent and soon the blood stopped, although I felt as if my nose had been stung by a hornet.
Cleopatra came back sweating, her hair in disarray and tangled with leaves and bits of vine. “The little wretch got away. I’ll have him crucified as soon as I catch him.”
“Nothing that serious,” I said. “My barber cuts me more severely with great frequency, and I usually don’t even have him flogged.”
“He might have killed you! How would that have looked, a senator murdered in my house? And with an arrow?” A flock of girls busied themselves with restoring her appearance, straightening her clothes, brushing her hair, repairing her cosmetics.
“Creative homicide is enjoying something of a revival here in Rome these days,” I said. “What are those people, some sort of pygmies?” The race of tiny men were long rumored to live somewhere near the headwaters of the Nile, where they fought battles with cranes and other large birds. At least, that was what they did on wall paintings.
“I think so. A dealer came down the river a few years ago with more than a hundred of them. It became fashionable to provide them with a little forest to hunt in. I never thought they might endanger my guests. I do apologize.”
“Think nothing of it. So many people have tried to kill me that it’s a pleasure to be attacked by someone so exotic. He was probably shooting at a bird or a monkey and failed to pay attention to what else was in the way.”
Her maid Charmian came into the courtyard. “My queen, the ambassador of King Hyrcanus of Judea has come to call.”
“That scoundrel,” she said. “Hyrcanus, I mean, not the ambassador, who is more agreeable than most diplomats. Senator, I fear I must take my leave. I do hope that arrow wasn’t poisoned.”
“I hope so even more fervently,” I assured her. “I will need to come back and continue our conversation.”
“Please do. I always enjoy your company.”
As we left through the atrium I saw the ambassador and his entourage waiting. With them was Archelaus, the ambassador from Parthia. I nodded to them in passing.
“That’s one time too many we’ve seen that man,” I said to Hermes as we left the house. I touched my nose gingerly. The small wound had scabbed over.
“Ambassadors are always in one another’s company,” Hermes said. “It’s probably just a coincidence.”
“Maybe I’m just being overly suspicious. Getting shot by a pygmy is enough to unnerve a man.”
“That was Cleopatra’s doing,” Hermes said.
“What!” I all but shouted, turning to face him. “What do you mean?”
“That one was lurking close by the whole time you were talking, not running around with the others. Cleopatra gave him a hand-sign”—he moved his hand from the wrist, waving his fingers subtly,—“and he shot.”
I couldn’t believe it, but I knew better than to think that Hermes would speak idly. He had been a slave, and slaves learn early how to read their master’s little unspoken signals. If he had seen Cleopatra make that gesture, then she had made it.