The Judgment of Caesar Read online

  “King Ptolemy’s army,” said the captain.

  “And the boy-king himself, if that throne is any indication. He’s come to parlay with Pompey.”

  “Some of those soldiers are outfitted like Romans.”

  “So they are,” I said. “A Roman legion was garrisoned here seven years ago, to help the late king Ptolemy hold his throne and keep the peace. Some of those soldiers once served under Pompey, as I recall. They say the Romans stationed here have gone native, taking Egyptian wives and forgetting Roman ways. But they won’t have forgotten Pompey. He’s counting on them to rally to his side.”

  The captain, receiving a signal from a nearby ship, called to his men to raise their oars. The fleet had drawn as close to the shore as the shallow water would permit. I turned my eyes toward Pompey’s galley and felt my heart sink. The small skiff that had transported me the previous day was headed toward us.

  The skiff drew alongside. Centurion Macro did not speak, but merely cocked his head and motioned for me to board.

  The captain spoke in my ear. “I hear the others stirring,” he said. “Shall I wake them?”

  I looked at the cabin door. “No. I said my farewells yesterday . . . and last night.”

  I descended the rope ladder. Spots swam before my eyes, and my heart began to race. I tried to remember that a Roman’s dignity never matters so much as in the moment of his death, and that the substance of a man’s life is summed up in the manner in which he faces his end. Stepping into the skiff, I stumbled and caused the boat to rock. Centurion Macro gripped my arm to steady me. None of the rowers smiled or sniggered; instead, they averted their eyes and mumbled prayers to ward off the misfortune portended by such a bad omen.

  As we rowed toward Pompey’s galley, I was determined to not look back. With that uncanny acumen a man gains over the years, I felt eyes on my back, yet still I kept my gaze straight ahead. But as we pulled alongside the galley, I could not resist a final glance over my shoulder. Quite tiny in the distance, I saw them all standing along the rail—not only the captain and all his sailors, but Rupa, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and the boys wearing only the loincloths they slept in, and Bethesda in her sleeping gown. At the sight of me looking back, she raised her hands and covered her face.

  Centurion Macro escorted me aboard. A crowd of officers had gathered at the prow of the galley, clustered around Pompey himself, to judge from the magnificent purple plume that bristled atop the helmet of the man at the middle of the group, who was hidden by the surrounding throng. I swallowed hard and braced myself to face Pompey, but the centurion gripped my elbow and steered me in the opposite direction, toward the cabin where I had been received the previous day. He rapped on the cabin door. Cornelia herself opened it.

  “Come inside, Finder,” she said, keeping her voice low. She closed the door behind me.

  The room was stuffy from the smoke of burning lamp oil. Against one wall, the coverlet on the bed that Pompey and his wife presumably shared was pulled down and rumpled on one side but untouched on the other.

  “You slept well last night?” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Well enough, considering.”

  “But the Great One never went to bed at all.”

  She followed my gaze to the half-made bed. “My husband told me you’re good at noticing such details.”

  “A bad habit I can’t seem to break. I used to make my living by it. These days it only seems to get me into trouble.”

  “All virtues turn at last to vices, if one lives long enough. My husband is a prime example of that.”

  “Is he?”

  “When I first married him, he was no longer young, but he was nonetheless still brash, fearless, supremely confident that the gods were on his side. Those virtues had earned him a lifetime of victories, and his victories earned him the right to call himself Great and to demand that others address him thusly. But brashness can turn to arrogance, fearlessness to foolhardiness, and confidence can become that vice the Greeks call hubris—an overweening pride that tempts the gods to strike a man down.”

  “All this is by way of explaining what happened at Pharsalus, I presume?”

  She blanched, as Pompey had done the previous day when I said too much. “You’re quite capable of hubris yourself, Finder.”

  “Is it hubris to speak the truth to a fellow mortal? Pompey’s not a god. Neither are you. To stand up to either of you gives no insult to heaven.”

  She breathed in through dilated nostrils, fixing me with a catlike stare. At last she blinked and lowered her eyes. “Do you know what day this is?”

  “The date? Three days before the kalends of October, unless I’ve lost track.”

  “It’s my husband’s birthday—and the anniversary of his great triumphal parade in Rome thirteen years ago. He had destroyed the pirates who infested the seas; he had crushed Sertorius in Spain and the Marian rebels in Africa; he had subjugated King Mithridates and a host of lesser potentates in Asia. With all those victories behind him, he returned to Rome as Pompey the Great, invincible on land and sea. He rode through the city in a gem-encrusted chariot, followed by an entourage of Asian princes and princesses and a gigantic portrait of himself made entirely of pearls. Caesar was nothing in those days. Pompey had no rivals. He might have made himself king of Rome. He chose instead to respect the institutions of his ancestors. It was the greatest day of his life. We always celebrate with a special dinner on this date, to commemorate the anniversary of that triumph. Perhaps tonight, if all goes well . . .”

  She shook her head. “Somehow we strayed from your original observation, that my husband passed yet another night without sleep. He’s hardly slept at all since Pharsalus. He sits there at his worktable, yelling for slaves to come refill the oil in the lamp, poring over that stack of documents, sorting bits of parchment, scratching out names, scribbling notes—and all for nothing! Do you know what’s in that pile? Provision lists for troops that no longer exist, advancement recommendations for officers who were left to rot in the Greek sun, logistical notes for battles that will never be fought. To go without sleep unhinges a man; it throws the four humors inside him out of balance.”

  “Earth, air, fire, and water,” I said.

  Cornelia shook her head. “There’s nothing but fire inside him now. He scorches everyone he touches. He shall burn himself out. There’ll be no more Pompey the Great, only a charred husk of flesh that was once a man.”

  “But he lives in hope. This meeting with King Ptolemy—”

  “As if Egypt could save us!”

  “Could it not? All the wealth of the Nile; the armed might of the Egyptian army, along with the old Roman garrison that’s posted here; a safe haven for the forces scattered at Pharsalus to regroup, along with Pompey’s remaining allies in Africa.”

  “Yes, perhaps . . . perhaps the situation is not entirely hopeless—provided that King Ptolemy takes our side.”

  “Why should he not?”

  She shrugged. “The king is hardly more than a boy; he’s only fifteen. Who knows what those half-Egyptian, half-Greek eunuchs who advise him are thinking? Egypt has managed to maintain its independence this long only by playing Roman against Roman. Take sides with Pompey now, and the die is cast; once the fighting is over, Egypt will belong to Pompey . . . or else to Pompey’s rival . . . and Egypt will no longer be Egypt but just another Roman province—so their thinking must go.”

  “But have they any choice? It’s either Pompey now, or else . . .” Since she had not uttered the name Caesar, I did not either. “Surely it’s a good sign that the king has arrived in all his splendor to greet the Great One.”

  Cornelia sighed. “I suppose. But I never imagined it would be like this—here in the middle of nowhere, attended by a fleet of leaky buckets, arriving with our heads bowed like beggars after a storm. And Gnaeus—” Dropping all formality, she spoke of her husband by his first name. “Gnaeus is in such a strait. You should have seen him yesterday after you left. He
ranted for an hour, going on and on about the tortures he intends to inflict on you, hoisting you onto the ropes, publicly flaying you, commanding the troops on the other ships to stand at attention and watch. He’s lost all sense of proportion. There’s a kind of madness in him.”

  I grew light-headed and strove not to lose my balance. “Why in Hades are you telling me all this? What do want from me, Cornelia?”

  She took something from a cabinet and pressed it into my hand. It was a small vial made of carved alabaster with a cork stopper, the sort of vessel that might ordinarily contain a scented oil.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “Something I’ve been saving for myself . . . should the occasion arise. One never knows when a quick, graceful exit might be required.”

  I held the vial to the light and saw that it contained a pale liquid. “This is your personal trapdoor to oblivion?”

  “Yes. But I give it to you, Finder. The man from whom I acquired it calls it Nemesis-in-a-bottle. It acts very quickly, with a minimum of pain.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I tried a sample of the stuff on a slave, of course. She expired with hardly a whimper.”

  “And now you think—”

  “I think that you will be able to maintain your dignity as a Roman much more easily this way, rather than my husband’s way. Men think their wills are strong, that they won’t cry out or weep, but they forget how weak their bodies are, and how very long those frail bodies can be made to suffer before they give up the lemur. Believe me, Finder, this way will be much better for all concerned.”

  “Including Pompey.”

  Her face hardened. “I don’t want to see him make a spectacle of your death, especially not with King Ptolemy watching. He’ll take out all his rage against Caesar on you. Can you imagine how pathetic that will look? He should know better, but he’s lost all judgment.”

  I stared at the vial in my hand. “He’ll be furious if he’s deprived of the chance to punish me himself.”

  “Not if the gods decide to take you first. That’s what it will look like. You’ll swallow the contents—even the taste is not unpleasant, or so I’m told—and afterwards I’ll throw the vial overboard. You’ll die suddenly and quietly. You’re not a young man, Finder. No one will be surprised that your heart gave out; they’ll assume that you were frightened to death by the prospect of facing Pompey’s wrath. My husband will be disappointed, but he’ll get over it—especially if we do somehow manage to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Then there will be countless multitudes upon whom he can vent his rage.”

  “You intend for me to swallow this now?”

  “No, wait. Pompey’s about to board a small boat that will take him ashore to parlay with King Ptolemy. Swallow it after he’s gone.”

  “So that I’ll be cold by the time he returns?”

  She nodded.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I’ll make you a promise, Finder. Accept this gift from me, and I’ll see that no harm befalls your family. I swear by the shades of my ancestors.”

  I pulled out the cork stopper and stared at the colorless liquid inside: Nemesis-in-a-bottle. I passed the vial beneath my nose and detected only a vaguely sweet, not unpleasant odor. Death by poison was not among the many ways I had imagined dying or had come close to dying over the years. Was this how I was to exit the world of the living—as a favor to a woman who wished me to spare her husband the embarrassment of killing me?

  A rap at the door gave me a start. The vial nearly jumped from my fingers. Cornelia gripped my hand and pressed my fingers around it. “Be careful!” she whispered, glaring at me. “Put it away.”

  I stoppered the vial and slipped it into the pouch sewn inside my tunic.

  It was Centurion Macro at the door. “The Great One is almost ready to depart. If you wish to bid him farewell—”

  “Of course.” Cornelia collected herself, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the cabin. The centurion ushered me out. Keeping my hand inside my tunic, I tightly clutched the alabaster vial.

  CHAPTER IV

  Amidships, Pompey was descending the ramp toward a royal Egyptian skiff that had just arrived. Despite its small size, the craft was ornately decorated; images of crocodiles, cranes, and Nile river-horses were carved around the rim, plated with hammered silver and inlaid with pieces of lapis and turquoise for the eyes. The prow of the ship was carved in the shape of a standing ibis with wings outstretched. Besides the rowers, three soldiers stood in the boat. One of them was clearly an Egyptian of very high rank, to judge by the gold filigree that decorated his silver breastplate. The other two were outfitted not like Egyptians but like Roman centurions; presumably they were officers from the Roman force stationed to keep the peace in Egypt. While the Egyptian officer hung back, the two Romans stepped forward and saluted Pompey as he descended the ramp, addressing him in unison: “Great One!”

  Pompey smiled, clearly pleased to be properly addressed. To one of the men he gave a nod of recognition. “Septimius, isn’t it?”

  The man bowed his head. “Great One, I’m surprised you remember me.”

  “A good commander never forgets a man who once served under him, even though years may pass. How goes your service in Egypt?”

  “These are eventful times, Great One. I can’t complain of being bored.”

  “And you, Centurion? What’s your name?”

  “Salvius, Great One.” The other Roman lowered his eyes, not meeting Pompey’s gaze. Pompey frowned, then looked beyond the centurions to the Egyptian whom they escorted. He was a powerfully built man with broad shoulders and massive limbs. He had the blue eyes of a Greek and the dark complexion of an Egyptian. Nearby, I overheard Centurion Macro speaking into Cornelia’s ear: “That’s the boy-king’s

  mongrel mastiff; fellow’s part Greek, like his master, and part native Egyptian. His name—”

  “Achillas,” the man said in a booming voice, introducing himself to Pompey. “Captain of the King’s Guards. I shall have the honor of escorting you into the presence of King Ptolemy . . . Great One,” he added, his voice falling flat on the final syllables.

  Pompey merely nodded, then gestured for his party to begin boarding the boat. Only four men accompanied him: Macro and another centurion to act as bodyguards, a slave with a box of writing materials to act as a scribe, and Pompey’s loyal freedman Philip, a small, wiry fellow with a neatly trimmed beard who was said to attend all important meetings with the Great One on account of his faculty for never forgetting a name, face, or date.

  After the others had boarded, Pompey, assisted by Philip, stepped into the boat. While the others sat, Pompey remained standing for a moment. He turned and scanned the faces of those assembled on the galley to see him off. The crowd parted for Cornelia, who descended the ramp and extended her hand to him. Their fingers briefly touched, then drew apart as the rowers dipped their oars and the skiff set off.

  “Remember your manners, my dear,” called Cornelia, her voice trembling. “He may be only a boy of fifteen, but he’s still a king.”

  Pompey smiled and made a theatrical gesture of submission, opening his arms wide and making a shallow bow. “ ‘He that once enters a tyrant’s door becomes a slave, though he were free before,’ ” he quoted.

  “A bit of Euripides,” muttered one of the officers beside me.

  “Sophocles, if I’m not mistaken,” I said. The man glowered at me. Pompey gave Cornelia a final nod of farewell, then moved to sit down, with Philip assisting him. Looking up abruptly, his eyes came to rest on me. It was only for an instant, for the business of settling himself on the moving boat required his attention, but an instant was all that was required for him to convey, in quick order, recognition, mild surprise, a flash of utter hatred, and an implicit promise that he would deal with me later, at his leisure. My throat constricted, and I squeezed the vial in my pocket.

  I was worth no more than that single glance; in the next instan
t, Pompey finished settling himself and turned his attention toward the shore and the company that awaited him at the royal pavilion.

  Without a word, those of us on the galley watched the skiff’s progress. Everyone on all the other ships watched as well, as did the ranks of soldiers assembled on the shore. The moment became slightly unreal; time seemed to stretch. The water, so close to shore, was quite murky, discolored by mud from the nearby Nile brought down by the rush of the annual floods. The sky was without a cloud but uniformly hazy, its color pearly gray rather than blue. No breeze stirred; the atmosphere was sullen and heavy with humidity. Sounds carried with peculiar clarity; I could clearly hear the noise of Pompey clearing his throat on the receding boat, and the low mutter as he attempted to engage the centurions Septimius and Servius in conversation. They did not answer but only averted their eyes, just as the men who had come for me that morning had averted their eyes. The barren, colorless shore assumed a peculiarly uninviting aspect. The throne set before the royal pavilion remained empty; King Ptolemy still declined to show himself.

  Cornelia stepped back from the crowd along the rail and began to pace the deck, keeping her eyes on the royal skiff. She touched her mouth with an anxious gesture.