The Judgment of Caesar (19 page)

Cleopatra turned her gaze to me. “We’ve met before, have we not?”

“I was present on the occasion when Your Majesty made herself known to the consul of the Roman people.”

She nodded. “Ah, yes. My attention was given entirely to Caesar on that occasion, but I do remember seeing you there, very briefly. Meto was also there, but the two of you quickly excused yourselves and disappeared. Since then, I’ve seen Meto on numerous occasions; Caesar hardly goes anywhere without him. It was only in recent days, and from Merianis, not Caesar, that I learned of your relationship to Meto.”

“When he was very young, I adopted him. But he is no longer my son.”

“How confusing! I understand that adoption is quite common among the Romans, who put their faith in man-made laws and man-made relationships. In Rome, it seems, two men can be father and son one day, and unrelated to one another the next; such a concept is foreign to us. In Egypt, the bloodline is everything. The bloodline can never be broken.”

“Except by death?” I said.

“Not even by death. Sister and brother in this world will be sister and brother in the next. The blood of the Ptolemies runs equally in my veins and in those of my brother. We are joined to one another and to our ancestors for all eternity. But in this realm we inhabit mortal flesh, and at some point death may separate us, if only for the brief span of this mortal lifetime.”

“I devoutly hope not, Your Majesty.”

She smiled. “If it becomes necessary for one of us to proceed to the next world prematurely, I assure you that it won’t be me. Cratipus would never allow that to happen.”

“Your Majesty will come to no harm, not as long as there’s a single breath left in the body of any man here!” declared Cratipus.

“Your devotion pleases the queen,” said Cleopatra. “Now return to the harbor and keep a lookout for other visitors.”

“Is Your Majesty expecting someone?” I said.

“Perhaps. But we were speaking of the afterlife.” She strolled through the lush gardens surrounding the palace, with Merianis and I following a little behind.

“Having lived in both places, I perceive that Egyptian expectations of an afterlife considerably exceed those of a Roman,” I said. “For us, when this life is over, the best has passed. We become shadows who watch the living with envy as we fade into a long, gray eternity.”

“Ah, but you have it exactly wrong. For those who attain immortality, this life is but a shadow of the next. The point of this life is to prepare for the life to come. I brought up this subject for a reason, Gordianus. Knowing of Meto’s importance to Caesar, knowing of your importance to Meto—and because Merianis has become so fond of you—I have made it my business to know a little about you.”

“I find it hard to imagine that anything about myself might interest the queen of Egypt.”

“Even so, I know of your reason for coming to Egypt, Gordianus, and I know of your bereavement. Was your wife very ill?”

I sighed. “Is this subject truly of interest to Your Majesty? It causes me pain to speak of it.”

“Even so, indulge me.”

“Very well. My wife’s illness was mysterious to me. Sometimes it seemed to me almost that she must be imagining it. At other times, I feared it would take her from me so suddenly I would have no chance to say farewell.”

“She wished to bathe in the Nile, thinking that would cure her?”

“So she said. But . . .”

“You think she might have had another reason for coming to Egypt?”

“I think perhaps she sensed that her death was near, and it was her desire to die in Egypt. She often expressed to me her disdain for Roman funerary rites; she did not care for cremation. Where else but in Egypt could she be properly mummified and given the ancient rites of passage to the afterlife? While that may have been her intention, it was not what happened in the end.”

“Your wife was lost in the Nile.”

“It happened near a little temple between the road and the river, north of Naucratis.”

Cleopatra nodded. “The ancient temple of Osiris, hidden among the vines; I know it well. The place is very ancient, very holy.”

“I was told afterward that the temple is abandoned, and that the woman who stays there, pretending to be a priestess, is mad.”

The queen raised an eyebrow. “I’ve met the woman of whom you speak. I found her very wise.”

“It was the old crone who told Bethesda to enter the water,” I said bitterly.

“But, Gordianus! Do you not understand the significance of a death in the Nile? The river is sacred to Osiris; whom the river claims, the god claims. To drown in the Nile is to be blessed in Osiris. Do you know the story of his death and resurrection? Let me tell it to you.

“It was Osiris who brought the gift of civilization to the world, at the dawn of history. Before Osiris, men were cannibals; Osiris taught them to grow crops and to harvest the fish of the sea, and he gave them much more—the first temples in which to worship the gods, the first cities and laws, even the first instruments with which to make music. The type of flute that my father loved so much to play was invented by Osiris himself.

“Osiris ruled the earth, and all men loved him. But by his very goodness Osiris incurred the jealousy of his wicked brother Set, who devised a plot to destroy him. Set made a wonderful box, and at a banquet of the gods, he promised it to the one whose body best fit the box. When Osiris lay in the box, Set covered it and sealed it with molten lead, then cast the box into the Nile.

“Isis, the sister and wife of Osiris, followed the box and retrieved it. When she opened it, Osiris was dead. But by her magic, Isis made his flesh incorruptible and restored him to life. Osiris might have retaken his throne, but instead he chose to retire beyond this world to the Kingdom of the Dead, where he welcomes the souls of the just.”

I bowed my head. “What has this to do with Bethesda?” I whispered.

“We are all composed of four elements: fire, earth, air, and water. To perish in the Nile is to be absolved of the elements of earth and water, which join with the mud of the river. Your wife is all fire and air now. It doesn’t matter that she wasn’t mummified. If she drowned in the Nile, in emulation of Osiris, she passed from this world directly into the god’s embrace. She received the gift of immortality. You should rejoice for her!”

I averted my gaze. “You speak of things about which I know very little. As I said, Roman religion is not as . . . conversant . . . with the afterworld as is the religion of Egypt.”

“You may be ignorant of these matters, Gordianus, but clearly, your wife was not. She chose the time and the place and the manner of her going. How many mortals can hope for as much?”

“Unless they have access to Nemesis-in-a-bottle,” I muttered under my breath, thinking of the vial Cornelia had given me.

The queen frowned. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, Your Majesty. A passing thought of no importance.”

Cratipus came running. “Your Majesty! Other visitors are arriving.”

“The guests I invited for the midday meal?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Tell Apollodorus to escort them to the little terrace that faces the city. Caesar likes to dine outside.”

“Caesar?” I said. “I should leave now. If Merianis, or someone else, can escort me—”

“Leave? Nonsense! You’ll stay, Gordianus, and take the meal with us. My cooks have prepared a poached octopus, and Caesar has promised to bring an amphora of Falernian wine—a rare treat! In recent years, good Italian wines have become as scarce as snowfalls in Egypt. I’m told that this amphora came from Pompey’s private store, which Caesar seized when he overran the Great One’s camp at Pharsalus.”

“Your Majesty, I’ve no desire to drink a dead man’s wine.”

“Then I’ll have an Egyptian beer decanted for you. Come, Merianis! Show Gordianus the way to the dining terrace.”

CHAPTER XX

We ascended a flight of marble steps to a flagstone terrace. A railing supported by squat columns overlooked a sheer drop to the water below. On either side, the terrace was flanked by tall palm trees and leafy plants. Behind us rose a windowless wall with a door that gave access to the interior. Dining couches had been set out in a semicircle facing the city, so that each had a view of the sunlit waterfront of Alexandria and its reflection in the harbor.

The queen sat back on the most opulent of the couches, which was strewn with purple cushions. She rested on one elbow and reclined so that one of her feet touched the ground. The pose showed off the lines of her figure; the linen gown clung to her heavy breasts and the sensuous curves of her hips, thighs, and calves. The jewels that adorned her sandals glinted in the dappled sunlight.

Merianis took up a position behind the couch to the queen’s left and indicated that I should stand beside her.

A few moments later, Apollodorus appeared. He wore no more clothing than before, but he had ornamented himself with a silver pectoral for the occasion. The hammered metal accentuated the muscles of his bare chest. He made obeisance to the queen. “Your guest has arrived, Your Majesty.”

Cleopatra nodded. “You may go, Apollodorus. I’ll summon you if I need you.”

As Apollodorus turned and disappeared down the steps, the bald pate of Caesar came into view, followed by Caesar’s beaming face. He was wearing his consular toga. He mounted the final step and strode onto the terrace. His smile faded, but only a little, at the sight of me.

“The queen of Egypt welcomes the consul of Rome,” said Cleopatra. “But where are the consul’s lictors?”

“I left them down at the harbor.” Caesar approached the queen, making no pretense of bowing. Clearly, in such a setting, there was no need for formality between them. They exchanged a lovers’ gaze: relaxed, intimate, confident of reciprocity. She offered her hand; Caesar took it and gave her a lingering kiss, not upon the back of her hand but upon the palm.

Caesar glanced at me. “Do we have another guest?”

“It chanced that Gordianus was here; Merianis brought him, knowing I desired to meet him. Don’t worry, there’ll be enough octopus for us all. But will there be enough Falernian?”

“Of that, have no fear,” said Caesar. A moment later, Meto arrived on the terrace. He was dressed in his finest military regalia, bearing an amphora in his arms as one might carry an infant. He grimaced when he saw me, but said nothing.

I observed the amphora. It was typical in shape, with little handles near the wide-mouthed top and a rounded bottom; it was designed not to stand upright but to be laid lengthwise alongside other amphorae for shipment and storage. The top was stopped with a cork sealed with red wax. Along the side several words had been etched in the clay in letters large enough to be read at a glance:

FALERNIAN
OPEN ONLY IN THE PRESENCE OF
GNAEUS POMPEY MAGNUS

“The wine comes from Pompey’s private store,” said Caesar. “When we overran his camp at Pharsalus, I found his pavilion abandoned but laid out as if for a great banquet—silver plates, great portions of roasted game, and this very amphora of Falernian wine sitting upright on a stand beside Pompey’s dining couch, ready to be unsealed and opened and decanted into pitchers. He escaped at the very last moment, leaving his victory banquet untouched. Pompey must have brought this amphora from his own cellars in Rome, lugging it all over Greece and waiting for the proper occasion to drink from it. You can see his personal seal, the letters ‘M-A-G-N-V-S,’ impressed in the wax. His ring fits the impression exactly.”

Caesar produced the ring King Ptolemy had presented to him, which he kept on a silver chain around his neck. While Meto held the amphora steady, Caesar, holding the ring between his fingers—superstitious about slipping Pompey’s signet ring onto his own finger?—demonstrated how the seal had been impressed in the red wax, fitting the ring into the impression.

“Let’s open it at once,” suggested Cleopatra.

Meto sat on a couch and set the amphora upright into a clay stand on the floor between his knees. He produced a short knife, with which he carefully sliced away the sealing wax. He gently pulled out the cork stopper. Merianis brought a silver pitcher, but before Meto could fill the pitcher with wine, the queen lifted her hand.

“Stop! Before the first pitcher is filled, let Caesar receive the first taste from the amphora itself.”

Caesar smiled. “A kind gesture, Your Majesty. But I think the first taste must go to my hostess, the queen of Egypt.”

Cleopatra shook her head and smiled. Every exchange between them became a flirtation. “The queen declines. The queen insists that Pompey’s conqueror should enjoy the first taste of Pompey’s wine. And I know just the cup from which you should drink it! Merianis, fetch the cups of beaten gold I received on my nuptial day.”

Merianis disappeared into the palace for a moment, then returned bearing two cups fashioned in the old Greek style—wide, shallow bowls with stout bases and handles, made not of painted clay but of gold.

Rising from her couch, Cleopatra took one of the cups from Merianis and displayed it to Caesar. “These cups were presented to me and my brother on the day of our royal marriage—a gift from the king of Parthia. Are they not beautiful?”

“Quite,” said Caesar. “But is it proper that I should drink from one?” “It is proper if I say it is proper,” said the queen. “My brother’s lips shall never touch this cup, any more than his lips shall touch my own. There’s only one man’s lips I want upon this cup; only one man’s lips I want to kiss my own.” She put her face close to his, and for a moment I thought they would kiss; but at the last moment she drew back and flashed a teasing smile. Merianis laughed, and I recalled that she had done much the same thing to Apollodorus earlier. Which of the women was emulating the other? They both seemed impossibly young to me at that moment—not a goddess-queen and her priestess but two flirtatious girls. Whatever Caesar saw, he liked it; the vaguely stupid look on his face was that of a man so smitten he doesn’t care who knows it. Meto, still sitting with the amphora between his knees, saw what I saw, and glowered.

Cleopatra turned to Meto, bearing the golden cup aloft. “Glum Meto! The very picture of the earnest Roman—never a smile for the queen of Egypt!” Meto sought to change his expression and managed an unconvincing, lopsided smile. “Stand up, glum Roman, and pour a splash of wine for your consul!”

Meto stood and lifted the amphora. Pouring a small amount from the long, heavy vessel into the wide cup presented a challenge, but he managed to do so without spilling a drop. When he was done, he replaced the amphora in its stand and put the cork back into the opening.

Cleopatra, walking slowly and carefully, carried the cup to Caesar. He took it in both hands and raised the rim to his lips, smiling at Cleopatra across the dark expanse of wine that reflected both their faces.

Cleopatra smiled back at him; then a shadow crossed her face. “Wait! The wine hasn’t been tasted!” She pulled it from Caesar’s lips. A tiny portion spilled from the rim and splashed onto the paving stone at her feet.

“Tasted?” said Caesar. “But surely there’s no need for that. The wine came from Pompey’s private store with the seal intact.”

“Seals can be penetrated, and so can cork,” said Cleopatra. “What was I thinking? The wine must be tasted first.”

“But surely—” said Meto, looking exasperated.

“No! It
must
be tasted. That was one of the first lessons my father ever taught me. All food and drink must be tasted, without exception. Enjoyment of the moment blinded me. Merianis, fetch Zoë!”

Merianis, anticipating the queen’s desire, had already stepped inside. She returned a moment later with a demure young slave girl who carried with her an ordinary clay drinking vessel. Cleopatra handed the wine-filled cup to Merianis. Merianis poured a tiny portion of the wine from the gold cup into the clay vessel held by Zoë, since protocol would not permit the lips of the taster to touch the golden cup intended for the queen’s consort.

Meto stiffened his jaw; I assumed he was impatient with the queen’s intensely suspicious Egyptian ways. Caesar appeared mildly amused, but at the same time slightly disturbed, for the queen seemed to be acting as much upon a premonition as upon the training she had received as a child. Like Caesar, I, too, had seen the agitation on Cleopatra’s face when she withdrew the cup from his lips, and the sudden look of fear in her eyes.

Without self-consciousness—for she was used to being watched when she ate—the girl Zoë put the clay vessel to her lips and drank. She lowered the vessel and wiped a bit of red wine from her lips. Her features assumed a curious expression. “Your Majesty . . .”

A wrinkle appeared across Caesar’s forehead. Cleopatra peered at the slave girl apprehensively. “Yes, Zoë? What is it?”

“Your Majesty . . .”

I held my breath.

“Your Majesty, I have tasted many wines for you—but never a wine as fine as this one!”

The tension evaporated. Caesar laughed softly. Cleopatra sighed. Meto gave a snort as if to say, “What were you all so worried about?”

Zoë grinned. “Your Majesty, I don’t exaggerate! I’ve never tasted anything like it. Falernian I’ve tasted before—though not in a long time—but it was never this fine. It’s hard to explain. . . .”

“Then I suppose we must find out for ourselves,” said the queen. “Go now, Zoë. Come back when the first course is presented.”

But the girl did not move. “As I said, Falernian I’ve tasted before, but never . . . never like this one. . . .” Her eyes, staring straight ahead, took

on a glassy look.

“I said that you may go,” said Cleopatra sharply.

Zoë ignored her. Her words began to slur together. “The flavor . . . the flavor is like fire . . . like something burning in my throat, and all the way down into my belly. A sweet fire . . . not at all unpleasant . . . but burning nonetheless. Oh, Your Majesty! Oh! I think there was something wrong with that wine!”

Zoë dropped the clay vessel. Everyone drew back, startled by the hollow explosion of the clay shattering on the flagstones.

Zoë fell to her knees, trembling violently. “Your Majesty! Your Majesty, help me, please!”

Cleopatra hurried to the girl’s side. She knelt and took Zoë’s convulsing body in her arms. Zoë gazed up at her, glassy eyed but with a look of mingled reverence and trust. She lifted her face as if in expectation of a kiss. The queen closed her eyes and put her lips to those of Zoë as the girl released her final exhalation. The convulsions abruptly ceased. The body of Zoë went limp.

Cleopatra held the dead slave girl in her arms, closed her eyes, and chanted softly. The chant was Egyptian, perhaps a song for the dead. For as long as the queen chanted and kept her eyes shut, a spell seemed to be cast over everyone present. No one moved.

I stared, dumbfounded at what I was seeing. Cleopatra was not only the girl’s mistress and queen; she was her goddess as well, whose divine agency at the very moment of death might serve to convey a lowly slave to immortality in the lands beyond life.

When Cleopatra opened her eyes, I saw that she had been doing more than chanting. Some furious calculation appeared to have taken place, reflected in the fiery blaze of her eyes. She called to Merianis, who put aside the gold cup, ran to the queen, and knelt beside her. They exchanged hushed, urgent words. Merianis looked over her shoulder at Meto, her expression so wild that I felt a stab of dread. Meto, too, sensed something terrible in her gaze, for I saw him blanch. Caesar caught the looks that shot between them, and on his face I saw a mask of puzzlement.

Merianis appeared to resist whatever Cleopatra was suggesting, until at last the queen raised her voice. “Go, then, and do as I say! Bring Apollodorus!”

Merianis rose to her feet and ran from the terrace.

Caesar looked at the amphora of wine, which had been replaced in the stand on the paving stones. He looked at Meto, who stood over the amphora, then at Cleopatra and the dead slave. “What in Hades just happened here?”

Meto looked down at the amphora. “Poisoned!” he muttered. “It must be. Somehow . . .” He reached down as if to pull out the cork stopper again.

“No!” Caesar shouted. “Don’t touch it!” It was understandable that he should speak with alarm, but the look he cast at Meto was tinged with suspicion. He strode toward Cleopatra, but she held up her hand to signal that he should stay back.

“Zoë’s
ka
—what you call the lemur—is still not free from her body. I sense it, still clinging to her flesh. Her death was so unexpected that the
ka
remains confused, trapped between this world and the next. Be silent. Don’t move.”

“But I intend to call for my lictors—”

“Silence!” said Cleopatra, gazing up at him with fire in her eyes. I looked on, amazed, as a twenty-one-year-old girl commanded the world’s most powerful man to be still, and he obeyed.

And so we stood, motionless like actors on a stage at the final tableau. Surrounded by stillness, I became conscious of the many sounds of the harbor, muted by distance and the gardens enclosing us—shouts of men working on the waterfront, the shriek of gulls, the susurrant voice of the restless water itself. Dappled sunlight danced upon the flagstones. The moment took on a hard-edged clarity that seemed at once dreamlike and more real than real. I felt light-headed, and despite the queen’s command that no one should move, I sat on one of the couches and briefly shut my eyes.