We followed her and the rear view was as maddening as the front. Hermes’ eyes popped and his breathing became labored. I nudged him in the ribs, but I had no cause to pride myself upon my self-control. I found that I had to adjust the front of my toga for the sake of decency.
She led us to a room Julia apparently had not seen. It was illuminated, amazingly, by a skylight composed of a framework of lead strips in which were secured hundreds of small panes of colored glass. They formed no recognizable picture, but they seemed to be arranged in some subtle pattern I could not quite make out. It shed an unsettling light.
“Please be seated, gentlemen,” she said in a way that turned that commonplace phrase into something sublimely seductive. There was no proper furniture, but the floor was nearly covered by heavily stuffed cushions, colorfully dyed. We collapsed with unseemly haste. Fragrant herbs were included in the stuffing of the cushions. It seemed that no sensual refinement went overlooked in this household.
“Please excuse me while I go see to your refreshment.” When she was gone Hermes turned to me.
“Did Julia mention that this woman is like some sort of Syrian fertility goddess?”
“No, but that was an all-female group that night. Maybe her magic only works on men.” But I remembered that Callista had said Ashthuva had exercised seductive tactics upon her.
Moments later the woman was back with a tray of delicacies and a pitcher. We had just eaten, but the formalities had to be observed. The snacks seemed to be an amalgam of meats, fruit, vegetables, and eggs, chopped and mixed so that nothing was recognizable, fried and served on tiny squares of crisp, unleavened bread. It was highly seasoned and I found it delicious. The wine was excessively sweet and I judged it to be Syrian. Might that be where this woman was from?
“What interest might so exalted a person as the dictator Caesar have in me?” she asked when we had downed a few bites.
“The dictator has assigned me to investigate the murders of two astronomers on the Tiber Island.”
“Oh, yes, I had heard about that. How terrible.” She made a strange gesture of head and one shoulder that is difficult to describe. I remembered my conversation with Callista about how each culture has its own vocabulary of gestures and I wondered what this one might signify. Horror, perhaps.
“One of the victims was a notable astrologer, the one who called himself Polasser of Kish. Did you know him?”
She made another gesture, this one a flick of her right hand, which I guessed to denote denial. “No, Senator. There is no guild of astrologers. We tend to be solitary, not gregarious. An astrologer may have apprentices, but rarely colleagues.”
“That seems odd,” I said. “Astronomers are always flocking together to talk and argue.”
“That is because, like philosophers, they are always coming up with something new and want to discuss it with their peers. Astrology is a very ancient art, and it never changes. All was discovered before human memory, and there are no new findings.”
“I never thought of it that way,” I admitted. “That is an observation worthy of Callista herself.”
She inhaled sharply. “Ah! I met that learned lady just a few nights ago. She is the most remarkable woman I have ever encountered.”
“She was quite impressed by you, as well,” I said. I could have bitten my tongue. It was stupid of me to let her know that I had been discussing her with Callista. This woman’s awesome sexuality drove my cautious instincts clear out of my head. “But I fear she has little regard for your art,” I went on.
She smiled unsettlingly. “But, Senator, I have many arts.”
I’ll just bet you do, I thought. “She has a philosophical aversion to astrology, I fear.”
“And I have little use for Greek philosophy. People need not agree on everything to find one another appealing.”
“Just so,” I said, wondering how our conversation had taken this odd turn. Then I remembered that I had started it by mentioning Callista. “So, you never met Demades?”
“Demades?” she said.
“The senator meant Polasser,” Hermes said, coming to my rescue. “Demades was the other murdered astronomer, the one who did not practice astrology.”
“I knew neither of them,” she said. “In fact, I know none of the men who have been working on Caesar’s new calendar.”
“Is this because most of your clients are women?” I hazarded.
“No, because they are Greek philosophers and would seek out an astrologer of their own nationality, should they have need of one. But it is true that most of my clients are women.”