The hairdresser threaded gem-studded golden rings through her hair while the cosmetician powdered her milky flesh with gold dust. She opened a small box and with ivory tweezers lifted out discs of gold pounded so thin that light shone through them. She applied one to each of the princess's nipples. The warmth of her flesh made them cling like paint.
The wardrobe mistress wrapped a long, narrow band of black silk around her hips, passed it between her legs and knotted it intricately so that it was secure while appearing ready to fall off at any moment. Its long tasseled ends fell before and behind to her ankles.
The eunuch who managed her jewelry inserted a huge ruby in her navel. From childhood her navel had been stretched by ever-larger stones until it would now hold a jewel two inches in diameter. He placed heavy serpent cuffs, bracelets and armlets from her wrists to her shoulders. Last of all, he draped a huge Egyptian collar around her neck. It was intricately made of beads of gold, carnelian, lapis lazuli and pearls. It covered her shoulders and the upper surface of her breasts nearly to the nipples.
"My princess," murmured the cosmetician, "are you certain that this is proper? You are now prepared for seduction, not diplomacy."
Zarabel studied her reflection in the polished silver mirror held by two Nubian slaves. "It is precisely what I need. I must seduce an entire diplomatic mission."
Preceded by guards and trailed by her attendants, Zarabel walked out into a main corridor and proceeded to the throne room. As she passed, soldiers and courtiers bowed deeply while slaves threw themselves onto their faces as if they were trying to blend with the floor. On her right hand and on her left stone titans held up the ceiling, fifty feet overhead. Light streamed in through tiny panes of a hundred colors set in a clerestory. Behind her she could hear a low murmur and she could easily guess its content: Where could the princess be going dressed in such a fashion?
At the door to the throne room she paused. With an effort of will she calmed her heart and put on her hieratical demeanor. Like the Romans, she understood the importance of bravura. She had attired herself like the most expensive whore in the empire. In bearing she would be what she was: a royal princess and the holiest priestess of the Punic race. At her nod, the guards opened the door and she strode within.
The first thing the Romans noticed was the expression on Hamilcar's face: a near-comical mixture of surprise and distress. They turned to see what had thus stunned the imperturbable Shofet. Then it was their turn to look dumbfounded. Even Roman gravitas was not sufficient to maintain their stone faces.
The woman who strode so superbly into the throne room was not tall, but she had the presence of a colossus. Her slow, measured steps, her erect bearing and the strange posture of her arms: spread to her sides, forearms inclined downward, palms facing forward, were so imposing that they did not notice at first that she was nearly naked. That impression, however, was not slow in coming.
She passed through them without looking left or right, until she halted a few paces before the Shofet. Then she brought her arms up and around gracefully to cross before her bosom and bowed, keeping her legs straight, bending from the hips until her hair brushed the floor. Then she straightened.
"I greet the avatar of Baal-Hammon on Earth, the most exalted Shofet of Carthage." Her voice was low and melodious. The Romans could not understand the Punic words save for the name of the god and "Shofet."
"And I greet the princess Zarabel, priestess of Tank," Hamilcar responded, having regained his composure. He went on in Greek. "Representatives of Noricum, I present my sister, the princess Zarabel. As you have seen, she is a mistress of the imposing entrance." It did not escape Marcus that the Shofet had said "Noricum," not "Rome."
"In the name of the Senate and the people of Rome," he said, standing and inclining his head toward the unearthly vision, "we greet the Princess Zarabel Barca of Carthage. Rome reveres all the gods and their sacerdotes."
She turned to face him, her delicate feet seeming scarcely to touch the floor. "The gods of Carthage love the strong," she said enigmatically. "Tank greets you."
"You may take your place, Sister," Hamilcar said. "Although you are scarcely dressed for the occasion. We are discussing trade relations with these honored envoys."
She looked the Romans over as if evaluating them for the first time. "Trade? I would rather say we should discuss military relations with these martial gentlemen."
"All in good time, Sister," Hamilcar said through gritted teeth. Her use of "we" enraged him, but he would not upbraid her before strangers.
Zarabel took her seat on the second throne. It was a pace behind and a step lower than the Shofet's. It was made of silver and covered with black leopard skins, a lesser beast than the albino lion. At least, she reflected, it was better than sitting on the bare metal. Gooseflesh was hardly regal.
For a while they discussed the possibilities of opening trade relations between north and south, of wine and oil, wool and blond-haired slaves. In time the Shofet grew tired of these things, which were better handled by the Hundred and the trade guilds. He decided it was time to broach the subject that truly interested him.
"In the past," Hamilcar said, "you were renowned for the valor of your legions. Do you still follow the martial practices of your ancestors?"
"The legions still march," Marcus told him. "The order of battle has changed in certain details since the emigration, but the legion remains the basis for our military organization."
"And you have a number of these legions?"
"Sufficient to guard our frontiers and extend our empire as necessary."
The Shofet smiled thinly. It seemed these rustics wanted to aggrandize their primitive state with the dignity of empire. If so, a little flattery cost nothing. "I see. It occurs to me that we might address the subject of military relations. You may have heard that even now I am making preparations for war. The unprovoked aggression of Egypt has grown intolerable. I am certain that your legions have maintained their ancestral standards of training and discipline."
"You are correct in that," said Marcus.
"Then it seems to me that a few of these legions might be a splendid addition to the forces I have already assembled. We have a standard contract for soldiers and I think you will find it more than generous." He saw the Romans stiffen.
"Roman soldiers are not mercenaries," Marcus said.
"I would hardly suggest that they are," said Hamilcar smoothly. "But a contract is a simple and effective means of laying out the terms of service."
"We know little of contracts, Your Majesty," Marcus said. "We do understand treaties. If you know your history, you know that Rome has always been most meticulous in observing the terms of military alliances. We have never failed an ally in time of need."
"Your reputation in these matters is common knowledge," Hamilcar said, making a mental note to ask Lord Hirham whether the Romans had in fact been reliable allies.
"If you wish," Marcus said, "I can negotiate a treaty of military alliance with Carthage. This, of course, must be submitted to the Senate for ratification."
Hamilcar did not fail to notice the way the eyes of the other Romans shot toward their leader. The one named Norbanus almost sneered. Clearly, Scipio was exceeding his authority. That did not bother him at all. An excuse to repudiate a treaty was always a useful weapon to hold in reserve.
"Perhaps," Zarabel said, "these gentlemen would like a tour of the walls of Carthage. I think they should find the inspection illuminating."
"An excellent idea," the Shofet said. "Men of martial heritage should not miss such an opportunity."