Free The October Horse by Colleen McCullough

camp—no, I didn't use the much-vaunted Delta canals, I sent him at the gallop on horseback, a fresh mount every ten miles. No courier from Potheinus ever contacted her, of course. Killed, I imagine. The Queen has sent me a very amiable and informative letter, in which she tells me that Achillas and his army are packing up to return to Alexandria, where they intend to camp outside the city in the area of the Moon Gate.”
    Rufrius looked eager. “We begin?” he asked.
    “Not until after I've moved into the main palace and taken charge of the King,” said Caesar. “If Potheinus and Theodotus can use the poor lad as a tool, so can I. Let the cabal build its funeral pyre in ignorance two or three more days. But have my men absolutely ready to dash. When the time comes they have a great deal to do, and not much time to do it in.” He stretched his arms luxuriously. “Ah, how good it is to have a foreign foe!”
    •      •      •
    On the tenth day of Caesar's stay in Alexandria, a small Nilus dhow slipped into the Great Harbor in the midst of Achillas's arriving fleet, and maneuvered its way between the clumsy transports unnoticed. It finally tied up at the jetty in the Royal Harbor, where a detachment of guards watched its advent closely to make sure no furtive swimmer left it. Only two men were in the dhow, both Egyptian priests—barefoot, shaven-headed, clad in white linen dresses that fitted tightly under the nipples and flared gently to a hemline at midcalf. Both were mete-en-sa, ordinary priests not entitled to wear gold on their persons.
    “Here, where do you think you're going?” asked the corporal of the guards.
    The priest in the bow got out and stood with arms joined at the hands, palm to palm over his groin, a pose of subservience and humility. “We wish to see Caesar,” he said in crooked Greek.
    “Why?”
    “We carry a gift to him from the U'eb.”
    “The who?”
    “Sem of Ptah, Neb-notru, wer-kherep-hemw, Seker-cha'bau, Ptahmose, Cha'em-uese,” chanted the priest in a singsong voice.
    “I am none the wiser, priest, and losing my patience.”
    “We carry a gift for Caesar from the U'eb, the high priest of Ptah in Memphis. That was his full name I spoke.”
    “What gift?”
    “Here,” said the priest, stepping back into the boat with the corporal on his heels.
    A rush mat rolled into a flat cylinder lay in the bottom, a dowdy thing to a Macedonian Alexandrian, with its shabby colors and angular patterns. You could buy better in the meanest market of Rhakotis. Probably seething with vermin too.
    “You're going to give Caesar that?”
    “Yes, O royal personage.”
    The corporal unsheathed his sword and poked it at the mat, but gingerly.
    “I wouldn't,” said the priest softly.
    “Why not?”
    The priest caught the corporal's eyes and pinned them with his own, then did something with his head and neck that caused the man to back away, terrified. Suddenly he wasn't looking at an Egyptian priest, but at the head and hood of a cobra.
    “Ssssssss!” hissed the priest, and stuck out a forked tongue.
    The corporal leaped in one bound on to the jetty, face ashen. Swallowing, he found speech. “Doesn't Ptah like Caesar?”
    “Ptah created Serapis, as he did all the gods, but he finds Jupiter Optimus Maximus an affront to Egypt,” said the priest.
    The corporal grinned; a lovely cash bonus from Lord Potheinus danced before his eyes. “Take your gift to Caesar,” he said, “and may Ptah achieve his ends. Be careful!”
    “We will, O royal personage.”
    The two priests bent, lifted the slightly floppy cylinder one at either end, and levered their burden neatly on to the jetty. “Where do we go?” asked the speaking priest.
    “Just follow that path through the rose garden, first palace on your left past the small obelisk.”
    And off they trotted, the mat between them. A light thing.
    Now, thought the corporal, all I have to do is wait until I hear that our unwelcome guest has