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again.’
    I inclined my head graciously. She couldn’t possibly know me. Was she just exercising her undoubted social skills? I suspected something else. I suspected she was very fed up with being ignored in her own home. None of these people here today were anything to do with her. But now, suddenly, here we were, unexceptional guests of impeccable lineage who had called to see her – Calpurnia Pisonis – a person in her own right.
    I couldn’t blame her. She had ten or fifteen men trampling her garden, twice that number cluttering up the atrium, ten times that number besieging her front door, and her household slaves were going frantic trying to serve refreshments to everyone … I was suddenly thoughtful, but that was for later. Concentrate on the now.
    And concentrate we did, because before I could say a word, two enormous black men, oiled, glistening, and clad in leopard skins, strode into the atrium and took up a position in the tabulinum – the open office area between the atrium and the garden. Another two Nubians transported a huge golden chair. No – not a chair – a throne. If the over-ornate and tasteless decorations themselves weren’t a big enough clue, then the carved arms representing golden sphinxes gave the game way. The cushions were of gold and Egyptian lapis lazuli blue. There were a lot of them and they were probably needed. I’ve never sat on a throne myself, but they all look hideously uncomfortable to me. I’m obviously not cut out to be a princess. Stick a pea in my bed and far from having a bruised princess, you’d just have a squashed pea.
    All around us, voices died in mid sentence. Beside me, Peterson groped for my hand and squeezed. He was the calmest man I knew – not difficult at St Mary’s where the word volatile doesn’t even begin to describe most of us – and for him, this was the equivalent of screaming hysterics.
    Cleopatra was coming!
    Glancing at our hostess, I could see she was less than entranced at the imminent arrival of supposedly the most beautiful woman in the world, and this was where it all started to go wrong.
    In my defence, I can only say that I’m an historian. And human. Probably in that order. I could have kept my attention on my hostess for just a little longer. I could have exchanged a few words with her, perhaps. It would have been the polite and respectful thing to do, but I didn’t.
    I craned my neck to see Cleopatra’s entrance. Just as everyone else was doing. I even took a few steps to one side of a better view. Then, too late, I remembered Calpurnia Pisonis and looked around. She was gone. I forgot her immediately.
    I’ve always been in two minds about Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator. My first thought was – bloody hell, she’s ugly!
    Because she was. Her nose was out of all proportion to the rest of her face. I spared a thought for her son, Caesarion. By all accounts, Caesar had an enormous conk as well. The poor little kid probably had more nose than the rest of Egypt and Rome put together. I had a sudden vision of him being towed around the ancient world behind this immense nasal feature.
    For God’s sake, Maxwell. Focus!
    My second thought was that you didn’t notice how ugly she was. Cleopatra had ‘it’. Whatever ‘it’ was, she had it in spades. She had more ‘it’ than the undoubtedly much prettier Calpurnia had or ever would have in her entire life.
    After the shock of the nose, I was able to focus on her other features. She wore an elaborate wig, as did all Egyptian women, but I suspected her original hair was dark anyway. Neither did she did possess milk-white skin for which she was famed – and at this point I should probably mention that Professor Rapson had done considerable research on how many asses needed to be milked for just one bath and had sent me a report claiming it would have taken a herd of between five hundred and seven hundred lady donkeys to provide enough milk for a daily bath. What he expected me to do