In those days, when the Tiber was still navigable, you could reach Rome by boat. The still smoldering ruins of Ficana were a helpful landmark to find the river delta, and as one turned into the river, under the gaze of the fresh garrison of Ostria, the water turned from salty to sweet.

At that point, your ship's captain (if he was competent, and eager to impress you) would order the sails to be lowered and the sweeps to be put out, and the ship would begin the long pull against the stream.

You would stop at nightfall, half way to the city that all roads would one day lead to, beaching the shallow long boat on a low bank, staring late into the fire as the exhausted sailors snored around you and the wolves howled in the hills above.

That was how I returned to the city of Rome in the year that would now be known as 601 BC. When we had docked the captain offered me his hand off the ship.

"Shall I accompany you?" he offered gallantly. "Strange towns are no places for ladies to walk alone."

"I have been here before," I said, and that did surprise him, for I had made no mention of it when I had hired his ship for the passage. And, in truth, Rome had changed much since my last visit. But I had learned from one or two unpleasant experiences that it never did to tell a man your age. "I shall return to the ship tomorrow."

I was half way up the Palatine Hill when a procession of men in horseback trotted briskly down the road towards the harbor that I had come from.

Several of those around me muttered, "The king", and the crowds parted.

The king, I thought, and wondered whether this descendant of Romulus would resemble his ancestor. It was that curiosity that led me to linger a moment too long in the middle of the street.

"Make way for the king," came a shout from the riders, and I was almost knocked aside by one of the outriders as they swept by. Stumbling backwards, it took me a moment to realize that the horses had come to an abrupt halt, and one of them was now wheeling back in my direction.

A heart beat later he had dismounted, and then there were no heart beats, because I looked up into his eyes and time, which chases mortals so relentlessly, chose to hesitate for the two of us that it has no claim over.

For that timeless moment his brown eyes locked with my green ones. Was it my imagination or did I see the old look in them?

"So," he said roughly, "it's you."

Imagination, then. He was still bitter after all these years.

"It's good to see you again," I said.

He snorted. "What bring's you to my city?"

"Your city?"

"This is King Tarquin," said a stiff soldier who had appeared next to me, hand on a sword. Time had evidently caught back up with us.

"It's Tarquin now, is it?" I said. "And a king?"

"The King," corrected the soldier. "Bow, woman."

I stared indignantly at the man who now went by Tarquin, and he smirked back, amused. The soldier's grip on his sword tightened. I inclined my head half an inch. Immortality, after all, does not mean that a sword through your guts doesn't hurt. Ask me how I know.

"It's alright, Lucius," Tarquin said. "I know this witch of old. Tell me, what name do you go by now? It is still Calypso?"

"No," I said, and sought around for a name. But my mind betrayed me in my moment of need, and the only name I could think of was Tarquin, which would not do. I blurted out, "I am called Tar- Tanaquil."

"Are you?" he said skeptically. "And what brings you Rome? More mischief?"

"None of your business," I said tartly.

"As King of Rome, everyone's business here is my business."

"Then I shall become Queen," I said.

"And how do you intend to do that? Is this another proposal of marriage?"

"I plan to depose you," I said.

He actually laughed, the pig. Then he said, "Come, it's been too long. Ride with me, and tell me what you been up to since I left your island."

The soldier Lucius watched the tall woman with with hair of gold walk off with the King, and frowned. He had heard the King mention the name Calypso once before, when he had drunk too many glasses of harvest wine and fallen into a loquacious melancholy, and told a particularly long story. Lucius tried to remember what the story had been about, for the king told many stories. How had it begun? Something about the men of Ithaca stealing the Sun God's cattle...