The Judgment of Caesar (18 page)

“You make her sound like a soldier, Master.”

“Because I think she is one, Mopsus, no less than a man who carries a sword and shield.”

“She’d never hurt you, Master!” said Androcles.

“I’m sure she won’t—as long as I don’t run afoul of her mistress. What a joke the gods have played on me this time! I’ve managed to survive one bloody civil war, only to find myself dropped into the midst of another, about which I care nothing. But from my experience of these conflicts, I know that even the most uncommitted bystander is seldom allowed to remain neutral. The palace is a battleground. Cleopatra and Ptolemy are rival generals, marshaling their forces. Caesar is the strategic stronghold they’re both eager to claim; all other battles will count for nothing if one or the other can win over Caesar and the Roman might behind him.”

“But, Master, you should have heard the curses the king was screaming against Caesar when the soldiers took him away!” said Androcles. “The king must hate Caesar with all his might.”

“I suspect the exact opposite is true. The king may be a Ptolemy to his fingertips, with a regal bearing and a certainty of his own divine place in the world; but he’s still a boy not in control of his emotions. When he railed against Caesar, he sounded less like a general rallying his troops, and more like a spurned suitor. As for Caesar, he’d like very much for the siblings to patch up their differences and get on with the business of ruling Egypt and repaying their debts to Rome; then he could congratulate himself on settling the Egyptian Question and go wrap up the loose ends left over from his own civil war. But neither the king nor the queen may be willing to settle for half of Egypt—or half of Caesar. Caesar may finally have to choose one over the other. Before that happens, we may all be forced to takes sides, whether we want to or—”

All four of us abruptly turned toward the alabaster antechamber that led up to the foyer, from whence came the sounds of footsteps, a scuffle, and loud shouting.

“Looters?” said Mopsus.

“Soldiers?” said Androcles.

“Or mere sightseers?” I suggested. “In any case, I think it’s time for us to head back to the palace. Androcles, show me the passageway.”

“Certainly, Master. Step around to the back of the statue.”

I gazed into a black void at the foot of the statue. “Is there no light at all in the passage? No air?”

“The first part is rather dark,” said Androcles, “but farther on there are grates and vents that let in little patches of light and puffs of fresh air. Here, I’ll go first, and lead you by the hand. Mopsus can follow. Rupa can come last and close the panel behind us; it’s rather heavy. Just be careful, Master, not to hit . . .”

“Ouch!”

“. . . your head!”

CHAPTER XIX

“People are still rioting all over the city,” said Merianis. “Days have passed since the king threw his tantrum, and yet the people remain in a fury. The rabble-rousers claim that Caesar is holding the king captive against his will—”

“A squadron of Roman soldiers did march Ptolemy back to the palace,” I observed.

“But they never laid a finger on him! The king returned of his own volition—”

“After one of his guards was slain in the Tomb of Alexander!” “Someone had to protect the king’s person on the way back to the palace; that crowd had turned into a rioting mob, as you saw for yourself, Gordianus. Anyway, once the king was back in the palace, safe and sound, Caesar and Pothinus together managed to calm him. Negotiations between the queen and the king continue, under Caesar’s supervision. But the city is in chaos.”

“Alexandrians are famous for this sort of thing,” I observed. “The Alexandrian mob drove the previous king out of the city; it took a Roman army to get him back in.”

“Which is why Ptolemy should have known better than to incite the mob’s fury. Most of their anger is directed against the Romans, of course, but even the palace guards are afraid to venture out into the streets. Alexandria is utterly lawless! The Museum is shut up tight—all those scholars afraid to even look out a window!—and so is the Library. No new books for you, Gordianus! You shall have to reread the ones I already brought.”

“Yes, do, Master!” said Mopsus, flinging himself on the bed beside me. “Read the part about Alexander and the Gordian knot again. Is it true that’s the origin of your family name? ‘In the land of Phrygia there reigned King Gordian, who was born a peasant but became the king because of an oracle—’ ”

“I see no need to read the tale again if you’ve memorized it,” I said. “As for the origin of the name Gordianus—”

But there was no stopping Mopsus. “ ‘And many years later, Alexander passed through Phrygia and the city of Gordium, named for King Gordian, and he was presented with the Gordian knot; for the oracles claimed that no man could conquer Asia unless first he undid the Gordian knot, which was so deviously tied that even the cleverest man could not undo it, and so tightly tied that even the strongest man could not undo it. Whereupon Alexander—’ ”

Androcles interrupted, jumping into the middle of the room and pantomiming the action he described. “Whereupon Alexander took out his sword, and with a great whack and a whoosh, he chopped it right in two, and the knot fell apart at his feet, and everyone bowed down to the new king of Asia—hooray!—Alexander, the only man strong enough
and
clever enough to undo the Gordian knot!”

“That’s not how it goes!” complained Mopsus.

“Close enough.”

“But you left out the part about—”

“I didn’t leave out anything important.”

“You’re just jealous that you don’t remember the words.”

“It’s the story that matters, not the words.” Androcles again mimed hacking at a knot with a sword. “With a great
whack
and a
whoosh
, he
chopped
it right in two!”

Mopsus did likewise, jumping about the room and slicing the air with an invisible sword. “With a
whack
and a
whoosh—”

Rupa made a face and covered his ears. Merianis sighed. “The boys grow restless, trapped inside all day.”

“Restless, indeed!” Not only were they unable to go about the city, but I had forbidden them to make any further explorations in the palace’s secret passages. “If only I could send them out on some errand. A very long errand.”

Merianis smiled. “Perhaps you and I should go out for a bit.”

“I think not! The last time I ventured out with you, Merianis, I very nearly got my head staved in by bloodthirsty dockworkers. For all I know, they’re still out there hunting for Romans.”

“But I have another idea. Come with me, Gordianus.”

“Where?”

“Trust me!”

I looked at her askance.

“With a
whack
and a
whoosh!
” shouted Mopsus.

“He
chopped
it in two!” cried Androcles.

I winced. “Very well, Merianis. Take me away from here. Quickly!”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

It seemed at first that we were heading toward the Roman sector, but at some point Merianis turned down an unfamiliar corridor, and I found myself in a part of the palace unknown to me. I was amazed anew at the extent and the opulence of the royal complex.

At last we stepped into the bright sunshine of a garden that fronted the harbor. We crossed the garden, breathing warm, jasmine-scented air, and descended several flights of steps. The cloudless sky was dazzling. The galleys of Caesar’s small fleet were scattered here and there across the water, their prows turned to face the harbor entrance, which was barred by a massive chain. Beyond the great harbor, impossibly big, loomed the great lighthouse of Pharos.

Merianis led me to a pier made of stone that projected a considerable distance into the harbor. We passed a series of small buildings, their rooftops decorated with colorful pennants. Beside a squat statue of Bes, the Egyptian god of pleasure, a flight of steps led down to a little skiff. I sucked in a breath, for the boat was exactly like the one in which Pompey had taken his final journey, its prow carved in the shape of a standing ibis with wings outstretched and its rim decorated with ornate carvings of crocodiles, cranes, and Nile river-horses, the images plated with hammered silver and inlaid with bits of lapis and turquoise for the eyes.

A man wearing only a brief loincloth sat in the boat, leaning back against the prow with his arms behind his head and his eyes closed, basking in the sun. As we stepped closer, I saw that it was Apollodorus, the Sicilian who had delivered Cleopatra to Caesar.

Merianis called his name. He lazily opened one eye.

“Dozing, in the middle of the day?” said Merianis. “What would the queen think of that?”

Apollodorus smiled and placed a hand over his loincloth, splaying his fingers. “Perhaps it’s the queen who made me so tired.”

“Blasphemer!” said Merianis, but her tone was playful. Apollodorus roused himself, stood in the boat, and shook his great mane of hair as if to untangle it. He cast a heavy-lidded gaze at Merianis and leaned forward with puckered lips. She pretended to reciprocate the gesture, then pulled back at the last moment, so that Apollodorus kissed empty space and almost lost his balance, circling his arms wildly to steady himself.

Merianis gave a deep, throaty laugh. “Summon the boatmen at once, you big lout!”

“Boatmen? Do you think I can’t row you there myself?” He made a show of massing his biceps.

“As you wish.” Merianis stepped into the boat and reached back to take my hand.

I sat beside her at the prow. “Where are you taking me, Merianis?”

“You’ll see.”

Apollodorus rowed us away from the pier. Seen from the harbor, the long expanse of the palace complex presented a vista of balconies, shaded alcoves, hanging gardens, and roof terraces. I was able to discern the high room of the building in which I had dined with Caesar and where Cleopatra had been presented to him, and adjacent to that building the great theater with its seats facing the harbor; Roman soldiers armed with spears patrolled the highest tier, and I recalled that Caesar had spoken of the theater’s virtues as a possible stronghold in case of attack. Since the riots set off by Ptolemy’s harangue, Caesar and his soldiers had begun to fortify the sector of the palace complex that they occupied, closing off streets and barricading the open spaces between buildings with whatever materials were at hand.

The large buildings connected by porticos along the waterfront dominated the skyline, for Alexandria is mostly flat; but there are a few hills, and upon the tallest of these, looming over the western half of the city, stands the great temple of Serapis, the Zeus-like god whom the first Ptolemy elevated to a place in the Egyptian pantheon to rival even Osiris. Above the waterfront rooftops, I could see the temple at a great distance, a majestic building not unlike the Parthenon in Athens and considerably larger, though the hill upon which it sits is not nearly as commanding as the Acropolis.

I felt a catch in my throat. This was the view of Alexandria I would have seen upon our arrival by ship had the storm not blown us off course. This had been my last view of the city, when Bethesda and I departed by ship many years ago, and the view I had expected to share with her upon our return.

“Gordianus-called-Finder, are you unhappy?”

“Why do you ask, Merianis?”

“There’s a tear upon your cheek.”

“It’s nothing. Just a drop of sea-spray,” I said, wiping it away and willing the flurry in my chest to subside. “We seem to be approaching Antirrhodus,” I said, referring to the largest of the small islands in the harbor, which was reserved for the exclusive use of the royal family; its name declared it, rather fancifully, to be a rival to the great island of Rhodes. The locals sometimes called it the Floating Palace, for the island was so built up with towers, promenades, and balconies that it looked as if a part of the palace complex had detached itself from the mainland and floated into the harbor. To set foot upon Antirrhodus without royal permission carried a sentence of death, and sailors coming and going in the harbor took pains to avoid it. Among ordinary Alexandrians, the island held a special mystique; some said that the late king had held parties of unimaginable debauchery there, while others thought it was the repository of mystical objects and magical talismans handed down from the days of the ancient pharaohs.

“Have you ever been there?” asked Merianis.

I laughed. “No, Merianis. During my last sojourn in Alexandria, many years ago, I was hardly a part of the royal inner circle.”

“And yet here you are, about to land on Antirrhodus. You’ve come up in the world since the days of your youth.”

“Or else the world has come down,” I said.

Apollodorus rowed us into a small, walled harbor and up to the landing place. The Egyptian guards on patrol raised their spears, then grinned when they saw Merianis.

“I bring a visitor to see the queen,” she said, stepping off the boat and reaching for my hand.

“
Another
Roman?” One of the guards, a grizzled veteran with an ugly scar on his cheek, eyed me suspiciously.

“Forgive his tone, Gordianus. Captain Cratipus commands the Queen’s Protectors. They’re an elite company of warriors who’ve guarded her person since the day she was born. They shielded her when her sister Berenice usurped the throne, and also when King Ptolemy returned and put Berenice to death. They protected her throughout the turmoil that followed her father’s death, and stayed beside her during her exile in the desert. Over the years, no small number of their company have died for her. They’re fanatically loyal. For their devotion, the goddess Isis will reward them in the afterlife by allowing them to attend the queen in the Kingdom of the Dead.”

“Will the queen still need protection from assassins, even after she’s dead?”

Cratipus, taking my comment for sarcasm, growled at me. Merianis lowered her voice. “Cratipus dislikes you because you’re Roman. He thinks all Romans must be very impious. He can’t understand why you allow yourselves to be ruled by mere mortals. I must admit, that also puzzles me.”

I shrugged. “So far as I know, no god has ever campaigned to get himself elected to a Roman magistracy, probably because election campaigns are so hideously expensive.”

Merianis looked at me quizzically, then laughed. “I see; you’ve made a joke. Anyway, Cratipus resents the queen’s reliance on Roman arms, and he distrusts Caesar’s judgment. It was Caesar’s idea that the queen should retire here to Antirrhodus for the time being, for her own safety. I think it was a splendid idea, but Cratipus thinks it was Ptolemy who should have been removed from the palace, if one or the other of them had to withdraw.”

“The location is certainly splendid enough,” I said as the guards escorted us away from the landing and we ascended a marble stairway lined by palm trees. Before us loomed the facade of the palace, a curious mixture of Greek columns and Egyptian stonework. “Or does the queen grow lonely, staying here?”

“Caesar visits her daily.”

“Daily—or nightly?” I said.

A low, throaty voice, speaking Greek with an elegant accent, came from the shaded portico that led into the palace. “Caesar may visit whenever he wishes. And so may Merianis; for the queen is always pleased to look upon her face.”

Cleopatra stepped forth into the sunlight. The guards fell forward onto their faces. Merianis dropped to her knees and bowed her head. I followed her example.

The queen accepted these prostrations as her due. I heard the swishing of her linen gown and watched the movement of her gilded, jewel-encrusted sandals as she strode back and forth before us. Only after a long moment did she utter the words, “You may rise.”

Cleopatra proffered her hand to Merianis, who kissed it. “I’ve brought a visitor, Your Majesty. This is Gordianus of Rome, whom men call the Finder.”