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Brutus is home. He stands in his mother's front hall and removes his red cloak, which he hands to a waiting servant. He turns, and there's Servilia, standing next to a maid and looking at him unsmilingly. Finally, she steps forward and embraces him half-heartedly. He hugs her much more tightly, while her hands just sort of rest on his shoulders. Until she lifts them a little and lets them drop again, to signal, "Bored. We're done now." Brutus releases her, and she touches his face perfunctorily without looking at him before turning and walking away. Never said a word to him, but damn, that chick can act. On an unrelated note, the ceramic mask-shaped wall sconces with candles burning behind them look like the coolest fire hazard ever. Brutus stands there, like, "I don't know what that was about, but I know it wasn't good." I wonder if Brutus knows what went on between Caesar and Servilia while he was gone? Either way, it's worse than he thinks. Not only is his mother disappointed at his cowardice, she's also gone lesbo.
On the bright side, Brutus has made the news. The Town Crier is rattling off the names of the noblemen who have returned from Greece with Caesar's pardon and must not be harmed: "Publius Servilius Casca! Marcus Tullius Cicero! Gaius Cassius Longinus! And Marcus Junius Brutus!" If I were one of those guys, I'd want the news that I'm not to be harmed to be the top story. Funny how all of those names sound familiar, and not just the ones who've been on the show this whole time. The Crier gives an approving little nod with this last one. He wraps up the broadcast with a little "previously on Rome" bit: Pompey has fled to Egypt, and Caesar is in pursuit.
As are we. In the ancient Egyptian capital of Alexandria, ranks of Roman soldiers stand arrayed along the path into a giant compound, the heavy iron gates of which creak open ponderously. At the head of one of the ranks, Vorenus looks in the opposite direction with an expectant eyebrow-pop that threatens to launch his helmet into the Mediterranean. Caesar marches into the compound, flanked by Posca and a retinue of officers. Once he's past, the men shoulder their pikes and spread out along the outside wall. This is all shot from far away using a tight zoom in order to make the most of the heat distortion that's making the air look all wobbly. Or maybe it's just being filmed through a cookout. Pullo doffs his helmet and leans against the wall, looking miserable in the heat.
Inside the building, we get a good look at Caesar's desert campaign outfit. I think his breastplate is supposed to be gold, but it looks more orange on my screen. Combined with the buff-colored robe underneath it, he looks like a walking Faberg� egg. All the other Roman soldiers are dressed as usual. But the Egyptians surrounding them look quite different. I'm not even going to get into all the varieties of exotic dress, hair, and makeup on display in the throne room they've just entered. There's a good month's worth of fug in there. Priests are busy stoking smoldering braziers, kicking up a ridiculous amount of smoke and an equal amount of chanting. I guess there's no amount of heat and discomfort that can't be made more unbearable with a little effort. Caesar's party comes to a stop near the head of the room, where a bald guy stands there looking a lot like Arnold Vosloo in the recent Mummy movies. Except he's got a little ink-beard and the outline of a sleep mask drawn on his face in orange marker. A-ttractive. He makes a long-winded introduction of King Ptolemy XIII that ends, "Behold Ptolemy, Son of Ra. Ptolemy the Divine!" All of which is an elaborate setup before cutting to a pair of feet dangling above the floor, panning up to the occupant of a throne. He's bored, bewigged, a little chubby, and not more than eight years old. Nice Sharpie®-beard on him, too. "Greetings --" Caesar begins, but the chanters aren't done chanting yet. The Egyptians smirk at Caesar's little faux pas. They'll live to regret that. Caesar doesn't seem like a guy who cares to be smirked at by people who aren't Posca.