infamia, part x-b (10-b)
Infamia
Part X-b (10-b)
XWP
Previous parts: part i/
part ii/ part iii/ part iv/ part v/ part vi/ part vii/ part viii/ part ix
part x-a
Making an entrance with her usual flair
In the weeks that follow Gabrielle falls into what she easily considers the happiest, most satisfying routine of her life: Mornings spent in the library, afternoons divided into reading at the palace whatever scrolls Apollonius will allow her to borrow and attending to the Empress as needed. Sometimes in the evening she prowls through the palace and its grounds, anticipating trouble-yearning for it, actually, because even though her mind is now stimulated well beyond its usual humble expectations, her blood still sings for fighting.
In the Empress’s vast suite she sits in the perch of a window, periodically scanning for activity in the courtyard and beyond. Satisfied for the moment, she turns her attention back to Strabo’s Histories. She is reading it out of order because Apollonius has misplaced the earlier volumes. No matter. She immerses herself in Strabo’s journey to the Kingdom of Kush.
Until Xena bursts into the room, accompanied by the usual foul mood that has percolated during a day of nothing but listening to and resolving complaints from the citizenry. She had wanted to appear as a “regular ruler” to the Alexandrians and, unfortunately, her wish has been granted at least in part, for the common folk have no qualms about petitioning the Empress about broken viaducts, the paternity of a slave’s baby, or stolen goats. In a concession to protocol she dresses in the usual finery of an Egyptian royal, including the thick, braided wig of stiff, banged black hair threaded with gold. Once the door closes, however, she wrenches the damnable wig off her head, curses the Egyptians and their rituals and their styles and the invisible, missing Cleopatra, who is the standard-bearer of said style. She tosses the wig at a slave, who fumbles the catch. The other attendants circle her like prey, scavengers to pick at a bracelet or knotted silk, devourers of every anticipated wish. “Leave me,” she commands.
The attendants take flight. Following suit, Gabrielle marshals together her scrolls, ready to retreat to the sanctuary of her tiny room. One scroll escapes and bounces teasingly across the floor.
Xena fixes her with a glare. “Not you.”
Gabrielle sits, but doesn’t dare read.
“Why is it running Alexandria is as tedious as running Rome?” she muses aloud. “Don’t answer that.” Xena bends and yanks a painful-looking pair of sandals from her feet. “Zeus. If anything, they are even more pathetic than Romans-more whiny, if that’s possible, complaining about the most ridiculous-“ Xena stops abruptly. “Damn it.” She runs a hand through her sweaty, limp hair. Stands stock still. “Why-? What am I doing?”
Ignoring the rhetorical question, Gabrielle stares longingly at Strabo. When she glances up again the Empress is stripping away her ceremonial dress. What are you doing? You are taking off your clothes in front of me. As a slave, she was more than accustomed to states of undress among everyone, male and female, in the average Roman household; she had even seen more of Cato than she would have liked. So she has no idea why seeing this particular woman fully naked is so-unnerving.
Particularly when Xena is so casual about it. “Tell me what you’re reading.” The Empress quickly runs a brush through her hair. While naked.
Scars. I am reading scars. Xena has a few, nothing major, save a long one along her torso-Gabrielle can tell that the wound had been cauterized and not stitched-and some smaller ones on her right leg, the pattern suggesting several blows from a mace. Suddenly, these scars are as fascinating as the scrolls at her feet. Most striking, however, is something inorganic: A thin, gold chain circling her waist. Gabrielle realizes the Empress awaits a response from her and tries to say “Strabo” but instead makes an awkward squawking noise, like a baby bird demanding food.
Xena looks intrigued, as if the gladiator is attempting to converse with her in a new language. “What?”
“Chain,” Gabrielle manages to say. “The chain you’re wearing. It’s very-beautiful.” That burning sensation across her face-was she ill again?
“It’s a chastity belt.”
Gabrielle blinks.
“You’re supposed to laugh. It’s a joke.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t laugh.
“If I were relying on you to be some toady or a yes-man, Gabrielle, I would have to execute you.” Xena sighs and puts on a robe. “Come with me. I’m going to the baths.”
“I’ve already bathed today.” Displeased, Gabrielle frowns. “Do I smell?”
Xena gives her an exasperated look.
“Oh!” Quickly, the gladiator trades scroll for sword.
In the bath, the comfort of tepid water surrounds the Empress. Before entering the tiled pool, however, Xena had removed the chain-frowning as it slinked around her fist, realizing how tired she was of it, and what it represented. She is glad the taciturn gladiator has not pursued a line of questioning regarding the chain. It is indeed a “chastity belt,” another one of Caesar’s curious, joking gifts, given to her on their wedding night. I know you won’t play the dull Roman matron. I know you won’t be faithful. And I won’t either. And that’s exactly what I want. This said as he had draped the chain, cool against her sweaty skin, and kissed a path down her back. She had laughed with him about it, professed relief that he was so enlightened, even though he seemed more than a little self-congratulatory about it all. It was only in the milky haze of morning that she quietly bristled at the gift, at the assumption that she was, at least to him, not worthy of that expectation of exclusivity, that struggle toward fidelity. As far as he was concerned, the only necessary fidelity she should possess was toward Rome, and apparently her existence as an aimless pirate without a home had thoroughly convinced him she was incapable of any kind of loyalty except the kind that generated power and privilege.
She ducks under the water. When she emerges, the gladiator is kneeling at the edge of the pool, expectantly nymphlike, and it creates an odd, abrupt intimacy between them. For Gabrielle is close enough that the strange, shifting colors of her eyes, like a mosaic bearing witness to the day’s passing moods and light, are almost inescapable. In a bid to regain her equilibrium Xena momentarily focuses on the gladiator’s sandaled foot, her muscled calf, the smattering of scars on her kneecap resembling a school of silverfish, before meeting Gabrielle’s gaze again. “Yes?”
“There are two Egyptians-Pullo says they’re former soldiers from Ptolemy’s army-requesting an audience with you now. They come bearing a gift.”
Xena laughs mirthlessly and props her head on damp forearms. “Like that worked out so well last time.” The slight smile that Gabrielle offers her, she thinks, will be worth whatever the troublesome gift is.
An hour later, dressed and with her hair still irritatingly damp against her neck, Xena watches dourly as the two Egyptians stumble into her antechamber, awkwardly lugging between them a shabby rolled-up carpet. The former soldiers look no better than the rug: Their uniforms are dirty and tattered, their dusty, broken sandals slap loudly against the marble floor as they approach.
Critically Xena looks at the lumpy carpet, wonders if this time they decided to go with an asp-an army of asps: “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Empress,” one of soldiers begins in a low, unctuous tone. “We beg you, please, do not be fooled by the humble appearance of this gift. For what it holds is indeed priceless.”
The Empress pinches the bridge of her nose. “Let me say right now-if Pompey’s body is in there, I will kill you both on the spot.”
Both soldiers shake their heads vigorously. Xena glances at the gladiator, who stands in that liquid, deceptively relaxed yet carefully poised fashion of hers, like a cat ready to pounce. “All right, boys. Let’s see what you have.”
The carpet unfurls and out falls a woman. Cleopatra, of course. The Egyptian queen’s first act upon liberation from the musty old rug into the sanctuary of the royal palace is to sneeze several times. “Horrible mode of transit,” she mutters to no one in particular.
Xena studies the queen: Small, even shorter than the gladiator, slender yet appealingly curvaceous, bronze skin, face dominated by large nose and thin lips-but also possessing arresting golden eyes that defiantly assess the Empress, this trespasser upon Ptolemaic lands, this guest posing as mistress of the palace. Attractive, Xena thinks, but not the magnificent creature the scribes rave about. Xena pours wine into a cup, hesitates, then pours more into another cup. “Good trick.” She toasts Cleopatra. “It dates back to Dido of Carthage. They say she used it to seduce a Tyrian king. Aeneas, of course, received a more straightforward treatment-Romans are usually perplexed by elaborate mating rituals.”
“And you would know, wouldn’t you?” Cleopatra parries, and then pauses to ensure that her response is not interpreted hostilely. She laughs softly. “Well. I was warned you would not be easily impressed.” Waving off assistance from her soldiers, she stands. “But you are no Roman, Xena of Amphipolis.”
“True.” Xena hands a cup of wine to the queen and with that simple gesture begins the dance, the delicious ritual marked with the familiar burn of pursuit-and yet this time the pleasure is diminished by the fact that Gabrielle bears witness to this predatory part of her in action. “Are you disappointed I’m not Caesar? Or Antony?”
Cleopatra stares into the cup. “They are legendary.” Looking up at Xena, she unleashes a smile so unexpectedly dazzling that her reputation as a great beauty is now breathtakingly confirmed. “And so are you.”
It’s an easy compliment, all part of the game-rather, its opening ceremonies. And as competitors in any sport, the two royals are oblivious to the anxious boredom of Cleopatra’s attendants, who single-mindedly focus on the possibility of getting their first real meal in weeks, and to the bemusement of Xena’s gladiator, who rolls her eyes at this seemingly ridiculous display and wonders at how great and transcendent beauty actually is when it is nothing more than a machination in pursuit of power.
Part X-b (10-b)
XWP
Previous parts: part i/
part ii/ part iii/ part iv/ part v/ part vi/ part vii/ part viii/ part ix
part x-a
Making an entrance with her usual flair
In the weeks that follow Gabrielle falls into what she easily considers the happiest, most satisfying routine of her life: Mornings spent in the library, afternoons divided into reading at the palace whatever scrolls Apollonius will allow her to borrow and attending to the Empress as needed. Sometimes in the evening she prowls through the palace and its grounds, anticipating trouble-yearning for it, actually, because even though her mind is now stimulated well beyond its usual humble expectations, her blood still sings for fighting.
In the Empress’s vast suite she sits in the perch of a window, periodically scanning for activity in the courtyard and beyond. Satisfied for the moment, she turns her attention back to Strabo’s Histories. She is reading it out of order because Apollonius has misplaced the earlier volumes. No matter. She immerses herself in Strabo’s journey to the Kingdom of Kush.
Until Xena bursts into the room, accompanied by the usual foul mood that has percolated during a day of nothing but listening to and resolving complaints from the citizenry. She had wanted to appear as a “regular ruler” to the Alexandrians and, unfortunately, her wish has been granted at least in part, for the common folk have no qualms about petitioning the Empress about broken viaducts, the paternity of a slave’s baby, or stolen goats. In a concession to protocol she dresses in the usual finery of an Egyptian royal, including the thick, braided wig of stiff, banged black hair threaded with gold. Once the door closes, however, she wrenches the damnable wig off her head, curses the Egyptians and their rituals and their styles and the invisible, missing Cleopatra, who is the standard-bearer of said style. She tosses the wig at a slave, who fumbles the catch. The other attendants circle her like prey, scavengers to pick at a bracelet or knotted silk, devourers of every anticipated wish. “Leave me,” she commands.
The attendants take flight. Following suit, Gabrielle marshals together her scrolls, ready to retreat to the sanctuary of her tiny room. One scroll escapes and bounces teasingly across the floor.
Xena fixes her with a glare. “Not you.”
Gabrielle sits, but doesn’t dare read.
“Why is it running Alexandria is as tedious as running Rome?” she muses aloud. “Don’t answer that.” Xena bends and yanks a painful-looking pair of sandals from her feet. “Zeus. If anything, they are even more pathetic than Romans-more whiny, if that’s possible, complaining about the most ridiculous-“ Xena stops abruptly. “Damn it.” She runs a hand through her sweaty, limp hair. Stands stock still. “Why-? What am I doing?”
Ignoring the rhetorical question, Gabrielle stares longingly at Strabo. When she glances up again the Empress is stripping away her ceremonial dress. What are you doing? You are taking off your clothes in front of me. As a slave, she was more than accustomed to states of undress among everyone, male and female, in the average Roman household; she had even seen more of Cato than she would have liked. So she has no idea why seeing this particular woman fully naked is so-unnerving.
Particularly when Xena is so casual about it. “Tell me what you’re reading.” The Empress quickly runs a brush through her hair. While naked.
Scars. I am reading scars. Xena has a few, nothing major, save a long one along her torso-Gabrielle can tell that the wound had been cauterized and not stitched-and some smaller ones on her right leg, the pattern suggesting several blows from a mace. Suddenly, these scars are as fascinating as the scrolls at her feet. Most striking, however, is something inorganic: A thin, gold chain circling her waist. Gabrielle realizes the Empress awaits a response from her and tries to say “Strabo” but instead makes an awkward squawking noise, like a baby bird demanding food.
Xena looks intrigued, as if the gladiator is attempting to converse with her in a new language. “What?”
“Chain,” Gabrielle manages to say. “The chain you’re wearing. It’s very-beautiful.” That burning sensation across her face-was she ill again?
“It’s a chastity belt.”
Gabrielle blinks.
“You’re supposed to laugh. It’s a joke.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t laugh.
“If I were relying on you to be some toady or a yes-man, Gabrielle, I would have to execute you.” Xena sighs and puts on a robe. “Come with me. I’m going to the baths.”
“I’ve already bathed today.” Displeased, Gabrielle frowns. “Do I smell?”
Xena gives her an exasperated look.
“Oh!” Quickly, the gladiator trades scroll for sword.
In the bath, the comfort of tepid water surrounds the Empress. Before entering the tiled pool, however, Xena had removed the chain-frowning as it slinked around her fist, realizing how tired she was of it, and what it represented. She is glad the taciturn gladiator has not pursued a line of questioning regarding the chain. It is indeed a “chastity belt,” another one of Caesar’s curious, joking gifts, given to her on their wedding night. I know you won’t play the dull Roman matron. I know you won’t be faithful. And I won’t either. And that’s exactly what I want. This said as he had draped the chain, cool against her sweaty skin, and kissed a path down her back. She had laughed with him about it, professed relief that he was so enlightened, even though he seemed more than a little self-congratulatory about it all. It was only in the milky haze of morning that she quietly bristled at the gift, at the assumption that she was, at least to him, not worthy of that expectation of exclusivity, that struggle toward fidelity. As far as he was concerned, the only necessary fidelity she should possess was toward Rome, and apparently her existence as an aimless pirate without a home had thoroughly convinced him she was incapable of any kind of loyalty except the kind that generated power and privilege.
She ducks under the water. When she emerges, the gladiator is kneeling at the edge of the pool, expectantly nymphlike, and it creates an odd, abrupt intimacy between them. For Gabrielle is close enough that the strange, shifting colors of her eyes, like a mosaic bearing witness to the day’s passing moods and light, are almost inescapable. In a bid to regain her equilibrium Xena momentarily focuses on the gladiator’s sandaled foot, her muscled calf, the smattering of scars on her kneecap resembling a school of silverfish, before meeting Gabrielle’s gaze again. “Yes?”
“There are two Egyptians-Pullo says they’re former soldiers from Ptolemy’s army-requesting an audience with you now. They come bearing a gift.”
Xena laughs mirthlessly and props her head on damp forearms. “Like that worked out so well last time.” The slight smile that Gabrielle offers her, she thinks, will be worth whatever the troublesome gift is.
An hour later, dressed and with her hair still irritatingly damp against her neck, Xena watches dourly as the two Egyptians stumble into her antechamber, awkwardly lugging between them a shabby rolled-up carpet. The former soldiers look no better than the rug: Their uniforms are dirty and tattered, their dusty, broken sandals slap loudly against the marble floor as they approach.
Critically Xena looks at the lumpy carpet, wonders if this time they decided to go with an asp-an army of asps: “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Empress,” one of soldiers begins in a low, unctuous tone. “We beg you, please, do not be fooled by the humble appearance of this gift. For what it holds is indeed priceless.”
The Empress pinches the bridge of her nose. “Let me say right now-if Pompey’s body is in there, I will kill you both on the spot.”
Both soldiers shake their heads vigorously. Xena glances at the gladiator, who stands in that liquid, deceptively relaxed yet carefully poised fashion of hers, like a cat ready to pounce. “All right, boys. Let’s see what you have.”
The carpet unfurls and out falls a woman. Cleopatra, of course. The Egyptian queen’s first act upon liberation from the musty old rug into the sanctuary of the royal palace is to sneeze several times. “Horrible mode of transit,” she mutters to no one in particular.
Xena studies the queen: Small, even shorter than the gladiator, slender yet appealingly curvaceous, bronze skin, face dominated by large nose and thin lips-but also possessing arresting golden eyes that defiantly assess the Empress, this trespasser upon Ptolemaic lands, this guest posing as mistress of the palace. Attractive, Xena thinks, but not the magnificent creature the scribes rave about. Xena pours wine into a cup, hesitates, then pours more into another cup. “Good trick.” She toasts Cleopatra. “It dates back to Dido of Carthage. They say she used it to seduce a Tyrian king. Aeneas, of course, received a more straightforward treatment-Romans are usually perplexed by elaborate mating rituals.”
“And you would know, wouldn’t you?” Cleopatra parries, and then pauses to ensure that her response is not interpreted hostilely. She laughs softly. “Well. I was warned you would not be easily impressed.” Waving off assistance from her soldiers, she stands. “But you are no Roman, Xena of Amphipolis.”
“True.” Xena hands a cup of wine to the queen and with that simple gesture begins the dance, the delicious ritual marked with the familiar burn of pursuit-and yet this time the pleasure is diminished by the fact that Gabrielle bears witness to this predatory part of her in action. “Are you disappointed I’m not Caesar? Or Antony?”
Cleopatra stares into the cup. “They are legendary.” Looking up at Xena, she unleashes a smile so unexpectedly dazzling that her reputation as a great beauty is now breathtakingly confirmed. “And so are you.”
It’s an easy compliment, all part of the game-rather, its opening ceremonies. And as competitors in any sport, the two royals are oblivious to the anxious boredom of Cleopatra’s attendants, who single-mindedly focus on the possibility of getting their first real meal in weeks, and to the bemusement of Xena’s gladiator, who rolls her eyes at this seemingly ridiculous display and wonders at how great and transcendent beauty actually is when it is nothing more than a machination in pursuit of power.