Perhaps it was age that brought the hardness, or the brutal choices of a campaign. He had pulled men back, knowing it would mean the death of other loyal soldiers. He had saved the many at the expense of the few. He had directed surgeons to those who had a chance to survive. He had even sent good men to Pompey's camp, knowing they could not deliver his message and live. He thought such cold decisions seeped into the bone after a while, numbing the joy of life. Even the sun of Egypt could not reach him, though Cleopatra could. He found his eyes were stinging, inexplicably.

The guards returned and Julius and Cleopatra walked slowly into the gloom, their steps echoing under a domed roof, high above them. It was clearly a place of worship and Julius wondered why she had brought him there. The walls were decorated with reliefs of star patterns in yellow agate, darker lines running through the stone like veins of blood. To his astonishment, he thought he could hear the mewing of cats, and as he looked for the source of the sound he saw a dozen of them padding out toward Cleopatra.

Murmuring words in Egyptian, she reached down and let them rub themselves against her hands. "Are they not beautiful?" she said, kneeling in their midst.

Julius could only nod, wondering which unfortunate had the task of cleaning the marble floors after them. She saw his expression and her laughter echoed in the space.

"They are the guardians of the temple, Julius. Can you see their claws? Who would dare to enter here against such hunters?"

As she spoke, the cats preened and purred around her, content. She stood gently and they followed her, their tails waving lazily upright.

In the far end of the temple was a statue that filled a concave wall. Julius glanced up at it and missed his step in confusion. It towered above them both, so that Cleopatra's head came up to the knee of the white stone.

Julius could only stare from one to the other. In creamy marble, he saw the features of the queen staring down at him. The statue held a boy child in her arms and looked outwards in pride. It was an expression he knew well.

Cleopatra saw his upwards gaze and smiled. "This is Isis, Caesar, mother of Horus, whom she holds."

"With your face," Julius said wonderingly.

"The temple is a thousand years old, before Alexander came here. Yet she lives in me."

He looked at her as the cats rubbed themselves against her legs.

"My son will be a god, Julius; your son. Do you understand now?"

He did not say that the face of the statue was fractionally different as he studied it. The woman in stone was a little older than Cleopatra, and as the first shock faded he could see the line of the jaw was different. The eyes were wider spaced and yet… it was astonishing. She nodded, pleased with his reaction.

"Will you pray to her, with me?" she said.

Julius frowned. "If she is in you, how can you pray?" he asked.

Her teeth showed as she grinned. "So very blunt, Roman. I should have expected it. It is a mystery, is it not? I carry the flame hidden in flesh, yet she is still there. When I travel the dead path, it will be a return, not a beginning. Understand that and you understand me. It would please me to have you pray to her. She will bless our son and keep him safe."

Julius could not refuse as she gazed at him. He knelt and bowed his head, pleased there were no other eyes to see him do it.

The scribes' quarter of the royal palace at Alexandria was almost a town in itself, with thousands of scholars working within its walls. After the destruction of the great library, the lamps were lit all night and day as the written works of masters were brought in from all over Egypt and Greece and copied with painstaking care.

One wing of the sprawling annex had been taken over by the Roman administration, and Brutus had claimed the best rooms for himself. At his order, legion craftsmen had stripped out the statuary and gold, crating and packing it where possible to be shipped home. In its place, they lined the walls in light, carved oak, building a Roman sanctuary. New barracks had been built for the Tenth and Fourth, after one too many incidents of trophy-taking in the city. Brutus had let them run a little wild at first, but it was clear that discipline was suffering after only a few weeks and he had been forced to impose the harsh order they knew best. There had been some who complained and even a petition signed by idiots who ended the day of its delivery marching out to desert postings. The city was quiet and, in the absence of Julius, Brutus was thoroughly enjoying his freedom.

Those men who had taken advantage of his weakness after Pharsalus found themselves shoveling excrement in the hot sun until they collapsed. He had taken care to remember every face and took enormous satisfaction from giving them the dirtiest tasks he could find. More than one had suffered from cuts and scratches that quickly became infected. Brutus had made a point of visiting them in the sickrooms, as any other conscientious officer would. Good Roman sewers would run under Alexandria by the time Julius returned.

In the meeting room, Brutus watched Octavian carefully, enjoying his struggle.

"… and I am passing the problem on to you, General," Brutus continued. "Julius has summoned these new legions to Egypt and they must be fed, paid, and found barracks. If you are incapable of carrying out your duty, I will-"

"He said nothing to me about them," Octavian interrupted, making Brutus frown.

The tension between them had not lessened since Julius's departure. At first, Brutus had thought Octavian would refuse the authority Julius had placed in him. He still remembered the younger man's threats on a Greek dock, and part of Brutus wanted Octavian to dare them again now that he had his strength. The confrontation had not come, though the effort of will had been perfectly visible to the other senior officers. Octavian seemed content to walk a fine line between duty and insolence, and Brutus was willing to play the game for as long as Octavian could bear it. It was always easier to press down than to push up.

"In my experience," Brutus said airily, "Julius is not in the habit of consulting his juniors on every decision. His letters have brought a garrison from Greece to Egypt. Whether they are an escort home or a force of occupation, I really do not care. Until his return, they are your responsibility."

Malice glinted in Octavian's face and Brutus sat up in his chair, anticipating the first crack in the calm. Nothing would give him more pleasure than to have Octavian sent home in disgrace. Regardless of circumstances, the Senate would be harsh with any man who disobeyed an order from his appointed commander. If Octavian drew his sword or raised a fist, he would be finished.

Octavian saw the eagerness and at first controlled his dislike. He was on the point of saluting when his anger surfaced uncontrollably.

"Is it that you don't want to see the faces of men you fought with as a traitor?" he snapped. "Is that why you won't go out to see them?"

Brutus smiled slowly in triumph. "Now, is that any way to speak to your superior, boy? Is it? I think you have gone a little too far today. I suppose I should demand an apology, in case Julius asks me about it afterwards."

Octavian was not a fool. Brutus watched him weigh the difference in their ages and positions. The younger man made a decision and became calm.

"You are not fit for your rank," Octavian said. "He should have known better than to trust you again."

With infinite satisfaction, Brutus rose. It had been an enjoyable month of goading the younger man, but he had known the moment would come.

"I can have Domitius come in here and do this formally, or you and I can go out to find a quiet place and I'll teach you manners. What's it to be?"