The Judgment of Caesar Page 9
“I thought you would be refreshing yourself in the royal quarters, Your Majesty, after the rigors of the day’s journey,” said Pothinus.
Ptolemy did not answer at once. He turned from Pothinus and stepped toward me, until I could sense his presence just above me, so close I could smell the perfumed leather of his sandals. “I’m told you’ve captured a Roman spy, Lord Chamberlain.”
“Perhaps, Your Majesty. Perhaps not. I’m trying to delve to the bottom of the matter. Ah, here’s one of my scribes now, with the additional information I called for.”
I gathered that another scroll had been delivered. While Pothinus read, muttering to himself, the king remained standing over me. I kept my eyes on a horned beetle that happened to be traversing the patch of floor just in front of my nose.
“Well, Lord Chamberlain?” said the king. “What have you discovered?”
Pothinus cleared his throat. “The man is Gordianus, called the Finder. He’s made a career of gathering evidence for advocates in the Roman courts. Thus it appears he’s gained the confidence of any number of powerful Romans over the years: Cicero, Marc Antony—”
“And Pompey!” said the spy, standing behind me. There was a moment of awkward silence. The man had spoken out of turn, and I could imagine Pothinus glaring at him.
“Yes, Pompey,” said the eunuch dryly. “But according to my sources, the two of them had a severe falling-out at the beginning of the war between Pompey and Caesar. Thus, it’s quite unlikely that this Roman was a spy for Pompey, as his captor alleges. Quite the opposite, in all probability!”
“What do you mean, Lord Chamberlain?”
“The fellow has a son, Your Majesty, called Meto, who happens to be one of Caesar’s closest confidants; as a matter of fact, the other soldiers refer to him as ‘Caesar’s tent-mate.’ ”
I groaned inwardly. Meto’s exact relationship with his imperator had long been a puzzlement to me, and a vexation when others gossiped about it. Now it seemed that such speculation had reached even here, to Egypt!
Ptolemy was intrigued. “ ‘Caesar’s tent-mate’? What exactly does that imply, Lord Chamberlain?”
The eunuch sniffed. “The Romans constantly spread vulgar sexual gossip about one another, Your Majesty. Politicians insult their rivals with charges of engaging in this or that demeaning act. Common citizens say anything they please about those who rule them. Soldiers make up riddles and ditties and even marching songs that boast of their commander’s sexual conquests, or tease him about his more embarrassing proclivities.”
“Tease him? His soldiers . . . tease . . . Caesar?”
“The Romans are not like us, Your Majesty. They’re rather childish when it comes to sexual matters, and they respect neither one another nor the gods. Their primitive form of government, with every citizen at war with every other in a never-ending struggle for riches and power, has made them as impious as they are brutish.”
“Caesar’s soldiers are fantastically loyal. They fight to the death for him,” said King Ptolemy quietly. “Isn’t that what you’ve told me, Lord Chamberlain?”
“So our intelligence would indicate. There are many examples to prove the point, such as the soldier in the naval engagement at Massilia who continued to fight even after losing several limbs, and died shouting Caesar’s name; and also—”
“Yet they feel free to make light of him. How can this be? I had thought his men must be so fiercely devoted to Caesar because they recognized some aspect of godhood in him and willingly subjugated themselves to his divinity; is he not said to be descended from the Roman goddess Venus? But a mortal does not make fun of a god; nor does a god permit his worshippers to ridicule him.”
“As I said, Your Majesty, the Romans are an impious people, politically corrupt, sexually unsophisticated, and spiritually polluted. That is why we must take every precaution against them.”
Ptolemy stepped even closer to me. The beetle under my nose scurried out of the way to make room for the toe of the king’s sandal. His nails, I could not help but notice, were immaculately groomed. His feet smelled of rosewater.
“So, Lord Chamberlain, this man knows Caesar?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. And if he is a spy, rather than having been employed by Pompey, it seems more likely, in my judgment, that he was sent here by Caesar to spy upon Pompey and witness his arrival on our shores.”
“Then we certainly gave him an eyeful!” said Achillas, abruptly entering the conversation.
“Rise to your knees, Roman,” said Ptolemy.
I groaned and felt a stab of pain in my back from the effort of rising without using my hands. The king took a few steps back and looked down his nose at me. I dared to look back at him for a brief moment before lowering my eyes. His face was indeed that of a boy of fifteen. His Greek ancestry was evident in his blue eyes and fair skin. He was not particularly handsome, with a mouth too broad and a nose too large to satisfy Greek ideals of beauty, but his eyes flashed with intelligence, and the twist at the corner of his mouth hinted at an impish sense of humor.
“Gordianus-called-Finder is your name?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“The spy who captured you charges that you were in the employ of Pompey. True or false?”
“Not true, Your Majesty.”
“My lord chamberlain suggests that you may be in Caesar’s employ.”
“Nor is that true, Your Majesty.”
“But it is true that you know Caesar?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” I could see that he was intrigued by Caesar, and that it was my uncertain relationship with Caesar that made him curious about me. I cleared my throat. “If it would please Your Majesty, I might be able to tell him a thing or two about Caesar; provided I am allowed to keep my head, of course.”
While not looking directly at him, I could see nonetheless that the corner of his mouth twisted into a crooked smile. The young king of Egypt was amused. “You there, spy. What are you called?”
The man gave a name of numerous syllables that was Egyptian, not Greek. Ptolemy evidently could not be bothered to pronounce it, for he continued to address the man by his profession.
“What caused you to think, spy, that this Roman was Pompey’s man?”
The spy, in his reedy voice, proceeded to tell the tale of where and how he had first seen me, and of how he had come upon me again near the temple beside the Nile.
Ptolemy returned his gaze to me. “Well, Gordianus-called-Finder, what do you have to say for yourself?”
I repeated the tale of why I had come to Egypt and how I had fallen in with Pompey’s fleet, ending with the disappearance of Bethesda the previous day and my capture that morning.
We had all been speaking Greek. Abruptly, Ptolemy spoke to me in Latin. His accent was odd but his grammar impeccable. “The spy strikes me as a bit of an idiot. What do you say to that, Gordianus-called-Finder?”
From the corner of my eye, I could see that the spy frowned, unable to follow the change of tongues. I answered in Latin. “Who am I to contradict the judgment of Your Majesty?”
“It would seem you are a man of considerable experience, Gordianus-called-Finder. Truly, what do you have to say about this spy? Speak candidly; I command it!”
I cleared my throat. “The man may or may not be an idiot, Your Majesty, but I do know for a fact that he’s a thief.”
“How so?”
“After I was bound, he rummaged through my traveling trunk, ostensibly to look for evidence to incriminate me. Finding nothing of the sort, he stole the few things of value for himself.”
The corner of Ptolemy’s mouth twisted in the opposite direction, producing a crooked frown. He fixed his gaze on the spy and resumed speaking in Greek. “What did you steal from this Roman?”
The spy’s jaw dropped open and quivered. He was silent for a heartbeat too long. “Nothing, Your Majesty.”
“Any spoils taken from an enemy are the property of the king, whose officers may dispense the
m only in accordance with the king’s wishes. Are you not aware of that, spy?”
“Of course I am, Your Majesty. I would never think to . . . that is, I would never dream of taking anything from a prisoner, without first . . . without handing it over directly to—”
In Latin, Ptolemy said to me: “What did he steal from you, Gordianus-called-Finder?”
“Coins, Your Majesty.”
“Roman sesterces?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“If the man has a few Roman coins on his person, or even a bag full of them, that would hardly constitute proof that he stole them from you.”
“I suppose not, Your Majesty.” “To make an unsubstantiated charge of such severity against an agent of the king is an offense worthy of death.”
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was as dry as chalk. “There was something else he stole from my trunk.”
“What?”
“A comb, Your Majesty. A beautiful thing made of silver and ebony. My wife insisted on bringing it with her . . . for sentimental reasons.” My voice caught in my throat.
Ptolemy turned his gaze back to the spy. The man had followed none of our exchange in Latin, but even so he began to tremble and gnash his teeth.
“Captain!”
Achillas stepped forward. “Your Majesty?”
“Have your men strip the spy of his tunic and whatever else he’s wearing. Turn out all the pockets and pouches and see what you find.”
“At once, Your Majesty.”
Soldiers converged. In the bat of an eyelash, the spy was stripped naked. He sputtered at the indignity and blushed crimson from head to foot. I averted my eyes, which chanced to fall on Pothinus. Did I imagine it, or was the eunuch discreetly taking a good look at the naked man’s scrotum?
In the background, the piper continued to play. For a while I had ceased to notice his music, though he had never stopped playing the same song in endless variations.
“What did your men find, Captain?”
“Coins, Your Majesty. Bits of parchment. A perfumer’s vial, made of alabaster. A few—”
“A comb?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Achillas held it before the king, who looked down his nose at it but did not touch it.
“A comb made of silver and ebony,” observed Ptolemy.
The spy, standing alone and naked, wrung his hands and trembled violently. There was a sound of splashing, and I saw that his bladder was emptying itself. He stood in a pool of his own urine, blushing furiously, biting his lips, and whimpering.
The piper continued to play. The tune changed to a brighter key and a quicker tempo.
“Have mercy on me, Your Majesty, I beg you!” blubbered the spy.
“Captain.”
“Your Majesty?”
“Have this man executed at once.”
Pothinus stepped forward. “Your Majesty, the man is a valuable agent. He possesses a great store of specialized knowledge. Please consider—”
“This man stole from the king. He lied to the king. You yourself witnessed the lie. Are you saying, Lord Chamberlain, that there is an argument to be made that he should not be executed?”
Pothinus lowered his eyes. “No, Your Majesty. The king’s words humble me.”
“Captain Achillas.”
“Your Majesty?”
“Execute the man immediately, where he stands, so that all present may witness the swiftness of the king’s justice.”
Achillas strode forward. Soldiers seized the spy’s arms, not merely to immobilize him but also to keep him upright; his legs had gone soft, and otherwise he would have collapsed to the floor. Achillas put his massive hands around the man’s throat and proceeded to strangle him. Where the man’s face had been red before, it now turned purple. His body convulsed. Weird sounds rose came from his mouth until a sickening crunch put a stop to his gurgling. With a snort of disgust, Achillas released him. The man’s head flopped to one side, and his limp body crumpled to the floor.
The room fell silent except for the merry tune of the piper.
“Lord Chamberlain.”
“Your Majesty?”
“See to it that the Roman and his companions are released from their bonds; that the items stolen from him are returned to his keeping; that he is given suitable quarters and made comfortable. Keep him close at hand, in case the king should wish to speak to him.”
Pothinus bowed low. “It shall be as Your Majesty commands.”
The same soldiers who had stripped and immobilized the spy now surrounded me and began to untie the cords around my wrists. Meanwhile, to a new and livelier tune from his piper, King Ptolemy made his exit from the room.
Thus I made the acquaintance of the Egyptian king and his advisers, and received my first taste of life in the royal court.
CHAPTER IX
Our quarters were simple but adequate: a room made of stone with sleeping cots for all (Mopsus and Androcles sharing), a brass chamber pot in one corner, a rug on the floor, and a small lamp that hung from a hook in the ceiling. There was even a narrow window that looked down on a sandy courtyard where soldiers were camped. Above the curve of the fortress wall beyond, the sky was dark and full of stars.
To eat, we were each given a bowl of lentil soup, a millet biscuit, and a few dried dates and figs. The food disappeared almost at once.
Eventually two soldiers arrived at the door bearing my trunk. They set it in the middle of the room and departed. I opened the lid. Lying on top was Bethesda’s silver-and-ebony comb. I picked it up and ran my fingertips over the prongs. Underneath was a bag full of coins, and beside the bag, almost hidden by a fold of cloth, was the alabaster vial that Cornelia had given me.
I extinguished the lamp and lay on my cot, clutching the silver-and-ebony comb. I thought of Diana and Eco back in Rome; they would be devastated when they learned what had happened to Bethesda. How could I bear to tell them? And would I ever have the chance? Rome seemed very far away. A coldness settled over me, and I thought of the alabaster vial. Perhaps it was the will of the gods that I should consume its contents, after all. . . .
Nearby, Mopsus and Androcles chattered to one another in low voices. I was about to tell them to be quiet when Mopsus spoke up.
“Master, is this what Rome will be like?” “What do you mean, Mopsus?” From outside I heard a sentry give the all-clear. Wind sighed in the tops of the tall palm trees outside the fortress wall. The world had become very quiet and still.
“When Caesar gets back to Rome and makes himself king, is this what Rome will be like?” said Mopsus.
“I still don’t know what you mean.”
“What he means,” said Androcles, seeing that his brother’s question needed clarification, “is this: Will everyone have to cringe and fawn and bow to Caesar and call him ‘Your Majesty,’ even free citizens like you, Master?”
“Yes, Master,” said Mopsus, “and will Caesar be able to say, ‘I don’t like that fellow, so kill him right now!’ And the next thing you know, just because King Caesar said so, the man’s being strangled to death, like this?” He demonstrated by clamping his hands around his brother’s throat. Androcles joined in the demonstration by flailing his arms and legs against the cot and making a gagging noise.
From the cot next to them, I heard Rupa emit a chuckle of amusement, but I saw nothing to laugh at.
“I don’t know, boys. When we get back—” I almost said, If we get back, but there was no point in planting doubt—”Rome will certainly be different. The Egyptians have always been ruled by a king; before the dynasty of the Ptolemies, there were the pharaohs, whose reigns go back thousands of years, back to the days of the Pyramids and the Sphinx. But we’ve never had a king—well, not in 450 years or so. And no Roman has ever been a king, including Caesar. We have no experience of monarchy and no rules to go by. I imagine, like this mess of a war, it will be rather like a play that the players make up as they go along. Now, stop this roughhousing and get to sleep!”
“Don’t test me, Mopsus!”
Eventually they quieted down, until again I heard the sighing breeze in the palm trees. I banished all thoughts of the alabaster vial from my mind; who would see the boys and Rupa through the perilous days ahead, if not me? I clutched the comb until, finally, sleep—blessed sleep, with its blanket of forgetfulness—began to draw near. In my head, the sighing breeze was joined by another sound, and I fell asleep hearing the tune played by Ptolemy’s piper, repeated over and over again.
The next morning, we set out for Alexandria.
It appeared that the main body of the army would remain at the fortress, under the command of Achillas, while the king and a smaller, though substantial, armed company would proceed to the capital.
Soldiers loaded my trunk into the wagon. Another soldier was assigned to drive the mules while I rode in the back with Rupa and the boys, not bound as on the day before but free to move about.
The road ran westward, away from the Nile, alongside a wide canal that brought fresh water from the river to the capital and allowed small craft to navigate back and forth. I wondered how Ptolemy would be transported to the city, and assumed he would arrive by chariot, but then, beyond the ranks of marching soldiers, I caught sight of an ornately gilded barge on the canal. It was manned by boatmen who propelled it ahead of the slow current by means of long poles. Stripped to the waist, their muscular shoulders and arms gleaming with sweat, the boatmen worked with graceful efficiency, pushing their poles against the bottom of the canal one after another and then repeating the sequence.
The middle portion of the barge was shaded by a large saffron-colored canopy, beneath which I occasionally caught glimpses of the king and his retinue, including the eunuch Pothinus. Every so often, when a breeze wafted from the direction of the canal, I heard a few notes of music from the king’s piper and felt a chill despite the rising heat of the day.
The hour was nearing midday when a soldier on foot approached our wagon.