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trouble breathing, my ears ring. I feel so...so...stupid! Maybe he's bewitched me."
    Phillip laughed, hugged her briefly, and then stepped back, holding her at arm's length. "You've been spending too much time with the servants, picking up their superstitious ways. You're fourteen. It's natural you would be attracted to a man, especially one as handsome and powerful as Orestes. Don't worry, little sister, you'll get over it. Things will feel better in the morning."
    He turned her around and gave her a little shove toward the door. As she was leaving, she stuck her head back in. "Promise?"
    "Promise."
    "Phillip?"
    "Will you leave and let me go to sleep?"
    "It's good to have you home again." She ducked out before she heard his reply. Content, she would sleep now and leave the mystery of the Prefect for another day.
     
     
     
    Chapter 4
     
    Orestes woke just before sunrise. He always did, no matter how little sleep he had the night before. When on active patrol, he used this predawn time to walk the camp perimeter, check on troop readiness and have a quiet word with the foot soldiers. In his administrative roles, he used this precious private time to exercise and prepare for the day.
    He rolled over in bed, sat up and groaned, slightly disoriented by unfamiliar surroundings. The night before, Orestes poured as much drink into potted plants as he had consumed at the banquets, but still his head ached. Abundantius, less circumspect, had consumed all the fine wine the good city fathers presented. Orestes rubbed his cropped head ruefully. His friend had always been able to drink and be cheerfully free of ill effects the next morning.
    Orestes shook the cobwebs from his mind and surveyed his sumptuous room with a small frown. The profusion of bright silk hangings, lustrous gilded wood and painted statuary offended his ascetic tastes. He should have known the Alexandrian Prefect's quarters would reflect the Oriental splendor of the Constantinople court. A wealthy benefactor had willed the estate to the Emperor after the destruction of the Ptolemaic palace district during Diocletian's reign.
    The mansion, situated south of the agora, crowned a low rise of limestone built up into an artificial hill. From the loggia, one could look over the whole city, yet have easy access to the governmental and commercial heart directly north. Orestes' suite of rooms looked out onto a central garden of neatly clipped bushes and banks of flowers. His personal quarters took up the top floor of the entire east wing.
    As Orestes stood, a muscle spasmed in his back. His in-drawn breath hissed as he bent halfway over, hand on a gilded chair. The servant who'd seen him to bed, a scant two hours before, had informed him a slave had been assigned to see to his personal needs. "Demetrius!" he shouted.
    The slave – a compact man of uncertain middle age and probable Greek heritage – entered immediately and rushed to Orestes' side. "Master, what is wrong? Should I call a physician?"
    Orestes waved him off. "No. My head is the worse for the celebrations and my back rebels against this soft life." He rubbed both hands on his lower back as he straightened and surveyed the room. "Get rid of that nest of cushions masquerading as a bed. I require a platform of cedar, built to half again my length and my arm span wide. Have a mattress made with close woven cotton and stuffed with something solid – straw or feathers, not down."
    He made a sweeping gesture with his right hand. "Remove all statues except three of the smallest, all chests and tables except the largest, and that chair." Orestes pointed to an ugly throne-like affair sitting on a raised platform against a wall.
    Demetrius bowed. "At once, Master."
    "It can wait a little," Orestes replied in an ironic tone.
    Demetrius discreetly cleared his throat.
    "Yes, man. Speak up."
    "Would the Prefect care to be shown the mansion? The steward awaits your pleasure."
    Orestes groaned at the prospect of another round