The Judgment of Caesar (21 page)

“Surely you’ve come to know the king better than I do, Consul. You must be a better judge of his character and capabilities.”

“Am I? Do you want the truth, Gordianus? These Ptolemies have me utterly confounded! The two of them have put my head in a spin. It’s absurd. The master strategist, the consummate politician, the conqueror of Gaul, the author of Pompey’s downfall—stumped by two children!”

I could not restrain a smile. “Cleopatra is hardly a child, Consul, as young as she may seem to men of our years. And—since you asked for my opinion—Ptolemy is no longer a boy. He’s very nearly at that age when a Roman youth puts on the toga of manhood and becomes a citizen. Were you not precocious at fifteen, Consul?”

“Precocious, perhaps, but I was hardly ready to run a country like Egypt! When I was the king’s age . . .” Caesar’s face softened. “That was about the time I lost my father. It happened one morning while he was putting on his shoes. He was a strong, vigorous man in the prime of life; my mentor, my hero. One moment he was alive, tying the straps of his shoes. The next moment, he gave a lurch and tumbled to the floor, as dead as King Numa. His own father had died the same way—suddenly, in middle age, for no apparent reason. Some flaw passed from father to son, perhaps; in which case, I’m already past the span of my allotted years and living on borrowed time. I could die at any moment; perhaps I’ll drop dead while we stand here talking!” He gazed at the distant cloud of dust and sighed. “I remember my father every day—every time I put on my shoes. It’s a sad thing for a boy on the verge of manhood to lose his father. The same thing happened to Ptolemy, though he was even younger when the Piper died. I think that may be why he craves so strongly the affection and guidance of an older man.”

I frowned. “You speak of Pothinus?”

Caesar laughed. “I’ll spare you the predictable joke regarding Pothinus’s manhood. No, Gordianus, I refer to myself. The other day, in the reception hall, when I spoke of the special friendship between the king and myself, I wasn’t just spinning pretty words in the manner of Cicero.”

“I think I may understand the king’s fascination with Caesar, but I’m not sure I understand . . .”

“Caesar’s fascination with the king? Ptolemy is intelligent, passionate, willful, convinced of his divine destiny—”

“Like his sister?”

“Very much like her, though I’m afraid he lacks Cleopatra’s sense of humor. Such a serious young man—and what a temper! That tantrum he threw the other day, haranguing the crowd and casting off his diadem!” Caesar shook his head. “I acted too quickly, pressing him to make peace with his sister. I should have anticipated his reaction.”

“It seemed to me that the king was behaving like a jealous lover.” I gazed steadily at Caesar, wondering if I had spoken too candidly.

He narrowed his eyes. “The intimate relationship between an older man and a youth has always been more warmly regarded in the Greek-speaking world than in our own. Alexander himself had Hephaestion, and then the Persian boy, Bagoas. If the king of Alexander’s city has approached me in the same spirit of manly love, should I not be honored? Young men are naturally susceptible to hero worship. The more ambitious or highborn the young man, the more exalted the older man upon whom the youth desires to model himself.”

“The king’s attention flatters you?”

“Yes; and in a way that his sister’s attentions do not.”

“They say that Caesar set his sights on a king, when he was young.” The steadiness of my voice was inversely proportionate to the recklessness of my words. Everyone knew the rumors about Caesar and King Nicomedes of Bithynia. His political enemies had used the tale to ridicule him—but most of those men were dead now. Caesar’s soldiers cracked jokes about it—but I was not one of Caesar’s comrades in arms. Still, it was Caesar himself who had opened this avenue of conversation.

His response was surprisingly candid. Perhaps, like me, Caesar had reached that point in life when one’s own past begins to seem like ancient history—more quaint than quarrel provoking. “Ah, Nico! When I put on my shoes, I think of my father; when I take them off, I think of Nico. I was nineteen, serving on the staff of the praetor Minucius Thermus in the Aegean. Thermus required the help of King Nicomedes’s fleet; an emissary was needed to go to the king’s court in Bithynia. Thermus chose me. ‘I think the two of you may hit it off,’ he told me, with a glint in his eye. The old goat was right. Nico and I hit it off so well that I tarried in Bithynia even after Thermus sent a messenger to retrieve me. What a remarkable man Nico was! Born to power, sure of himself, with a voracious appetite for life; a ruler not unlike the one that Ptolemy may yet become. What a lot he had to teach an eager, ambitious young Roman who was no longer a boy but not quite a man. When I think of how naive I was, how wide-eyed and innocent!”

“It’s impossible to think of you as naive, Consul.”

“Is it? Alas! The youth whom Nico instructed in the ways of the world has long since vanished—but the man remembers those golden days as clearly as if they just happened. I shut my eyes, and I’m in Bithynia again, without a scar on my flesh and with all my life ahead of me.

Do you think Ptolemy will remember me that vividly when he grows old, and ruling Egypt has become a tired habit, and that fellow called Caesar has long since turned to dust?”

“I think the world will remember Caesar long after the Ptolemies have been forgotten.” I said this matter-of-factly, but Caesar mistook my tone. His gentle mood suddenly evaporated.

“Don’t humor me, Gordianus—you, of all people! The last thing I need right now is another sycophant.”

The whole time we talked, he had been fiddling with the little vial, turning it over in his hand. Now he gripped it in his fist, so tightly that his knuckles blanched as white as the alabaster. Suddenly he threw it with all his might against the marble wall. Unbroken, the vial ricocheted and struck my leg. The blow was harmless, but still I jumped.

The gesture expended Caesar’s fury. He drew a deep breath. “Just when I thought I was on the verge of restoring peace between the king and queen, Achillas marches on Alexandria—and someone attempts to poison me.”

“Perhaps the queen was the intended victim.”

“Perhaps. But how and when was the wine poisoned, and by whom? We know where the poison came from—and that fact casts a ray of suspicion upon
you,
Gordianus.”

“Consul, I didn’t even know the vial was missing—”

“So you’ve already explained. But the possibility remains that you were in collusion with your son—that you provided him with the poison, knowing how he intended to use it. Did you conspire against me?”

I shook my head. “No, Consul.”

“Meto claims to know nothing. The queen advises me to torture him. She doesn’t understand how strong willed he is. I myself trained Meto to endure interrogation. But if I thought that torture would loosen his tongue—”

“No, Consul! Not that.”

“The truth must be discovered.”

“Perhaps . . . perhaps I can do so, Consul. If you’ll allow me—”

“Why? Meto means nothing to you. In Massilia, you disowned him. I witnessed that moment with my own eyes and ears.”

“Consul, please! Let me help my son.”

Caesar gazed at me for a long moment. A shadow seemed to dim the light in his eyes, as if some powerful, dark emotion gripped him, but his face remained devoid of expression. At last he spoke. “Over the years, your son has demonstrated great loyalty to me. I’ve rewarded his devotion with a degree of trust I’ve given to very few men. And yet, when that slave girl died today, a part of me was not surprised. The worm of deceit starts small, but grows. I think back, and I perceive that a rift has been growing between myself and Meto for quite some time. The signs have been subtle. He never defies me outright, but on his face I’ve glimpsed a sour, fleeting look; in his voice I’ve heard a faint note of discord. If Meto
has
betrayed me, he shall be punished accordingly.”

I bit my lip. “Caesar has a reputation for clemency.”

“Yes, Gordianus, I’ve shown great clemency to those who’ve fought against me. Even that rat Domitius Ahenobarbus I forgave, only to see him take up arms against me at Massilia and again at Pharsalus. But for a traitor who resorts to lies and poison, there can be no pardon. I tell you this outright, Gordianus, so that if you harbor any notion of pleading for your son’s life, you can spare yourself the indignity. Don’t bother to rip your tunic and weep, like one of Cicero’s guilty clients playing for sympathy in the courts. If Meto did this thing, my judgment will be harsh and irreversible. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Consul. But what if I can prove to you that he’s innocent?” Again the shadow dimmed his eyes. “If Meto is innocent, then someone else is guilty.”

“So I would assume, Consul.”

“In which case, the truth is likely to pose a problem.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“The poisoner must have come from one of three camps—my own, or that of the queen, or that of the king. Whatever the truth, the revelation is likely to cause yet more . . . complications. Which is why you will report anything you discover directly to me, and to me alone. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Consul.”

Caesar strode across the room, stooped, and picked up the alabaster vial. He held it to the light. “What an irony, if the poison intended for Pompey’s widow had taken the life of Pompey’s rival! Do you think our poisoner has a sense of humor, Gordianus?”

“I shall take that possibility into account, Consul.”

CHAPTER XXII

I had to stoop to enter through the low doorway. The jailer, one of Caesar’s men, shut the door behind me. Meto, sitting on a low cot, sprang to his feet.

He was being held in a small room underground. The walls were dank, and the only light came from a tiny, grated window high above our heads, from which I heard faint, echoing sounds of the harbor—bells, gulls, men calling out, the low murmur of the water.

“Papa! What are you doing here? Caesar can’t think that you had anything to do with—”

“I’m not here as a prisoner, Meto. Caesar agreed to let me visit you.”

“You looked in your trunk?”

“Yes. The vial wasn’t there. I don’t know when it was taken. Caesar has it now. He wants to know how it came to be on your person.”

“But I never possessed it! The only time I ever saw it was that day in your room, when I told you to get rid of it.”

“If only I had!”

Meto shook his head. “This is madness. Why is Caesar holding me here? He can’t possibly believe I tried to poison him.”

I remembered the darkness in Caesar’s eyes. “I’m afraid he does believe it, though it causes him great pain. But if we can prove otherwise—”

Meto was staring at the dank stone wall, not listening. “How the gods must despise me! First, you disowned me, Papa. I thought that nothing could be worse than that. But now Caesar turns against me. All that I’ve loved and trusted and given my life for has abandoned me. Why did I ever allow myself to expect anything more? I began this life as an orphan and a slave. I shall leave this world in an even lowlier state, branded as a traitor and a criminal, without a father, without a friend, without a name.”

“No, Meto! Whatever else may happen, you’re still my son.”

He looked at me with tears in his eyes. “In Massilia—”

“I repent of the error I made in Massilia! You’re my son, Meto. I’m your father. Forgive me.”

“Papa!”

I embraced my son. For the first time since Massilia, a place in my heart that had grown numb and cold quickened and sprang to life. I felt an almost palpable relief, as if a jagged stone that had been lodged in my breast was now removed. I had learned to ignore the pain in order to bear it, but now that it was relieved, I realized the grinding, wearing burden of the suffering I had inflicted on myself. I embraced the warm solidity of Meto’s body and rejoiced that he was still in the world, alive and whole. But for how much longer? In Egypt, I had lost Bethesda, only to find Meto again; had I now reclaimed Meto only to face losing him forever?

He stepped back. We both took deep breaths and for a moment lowered our eyes, made shy by the emotion of the moment. I cleared my throat.

“I can’t stay long. We need to talk, and quickly. And remember, say nothing that can’t be safely overheard. These walls appear to be solid stone, but there may be someone watching and listening even now.”

“There’s nothing I can’t say aloud, Papa. I have nothing to hide.”

“Even so . . .” I thought of the sentiments he had expressed to me in my room the day he saw the alabaster vial, his doubts about Caesar and the suffering that followed in Caesar’s wake; if another of Caesar’s men had overheard that conversation, might Meto’s words have been construed as sedition? Now that he stood accused of outright treason, anything he said against Caesar would be scrutinized in the worst possible light, so I dared not question him further in such a vein.

For the first time I allowed myself to consider the possibility that Meto might actually be guilty of making an attempt on Caesar’s life. It made no sense, unless his resentment against Caesar went far deeper than anything he had expressed to me. But might it be that the poison had been intended for Cleopatra, so as to remove her influence upon Caesar, and that the attempt had somehow gone terribly wrong? I gazed at Meto’s face, trying to read the truth in his eyes. Was my son a poisoner, and a bungler as well? In the corner of my heart that had once renounced him, a seed of doubt was stirring.

“Apollodorus found the vial on your person, Meto. How could such a thing have happened?”

“I have no idea, Papa.”

“It will take a better answer than that to satisfy Caesar.”

“Caesar should be satisfied that I speak the truth! After all we’ve been through together, it’s absurd that he shouldn’t trust me.”

“Perhaps. But think, Meto. Did Apollodorus simply hold up the vial and claim he’d found it on you? Or was it actually on your person?”

He wrinkled his brow. “I remember that he tugged at it, and when I looked down, I saw it with my own eyes, held between two straps attached to my breastplate. I couldn’t believe it! It can’t have been there when I put on my armor this morning.”

“Could someone besides Apollodorus have planted it on you, earlier in the day?”

He shook his head. “I don’t see how. But if such a thing could be done without my knowledge, then who knows when it was done or by whom?”

I nodded. “That amphora of Falernian—where did it come from?”

“It was kept in storage on one of Caesar’s ships in the harbor, along with his other personal belongings. This morning, quite early, he sent me to fetch it.”

“Did anyone know in advance that he planned to drink from it today?”

“I don’t think Caesar himself knew. He decided on a whim. He wanted to impress the queen.”

“When you fetched this amphora, did you have any reason to believe it had been tampered with?”

“I don’t think it had been touched since it was loaded into the ship. In fact, I had a hard time finding it; it was buried in a corner of the hold, behind a number of other items that were seized from Pompey’s tent at Pharsalus—folding chairs, lamps, rugs, coverlets, and such. There was no sign that any of the cargo had been disturbed. And when I did find it, I dusted it off, made sure it was the Falernian Caesar had requested, and inspected the seal to see if it was intact; I checked that quite carefully. After that, the amphora was in my possession and never out of my sight. So, if you’re wondering if someone knew in advance that Caesar would want to open that amphora today, and if that person somehow put poison in it before it was opened, you can dismiss such a notion. No one could conceivably have done such a thing . . . except perhaps myself.”

“Meto! These walls may have ears. Don’t say such a thing, even in jest.”

“Why not? If a case is to be made against me, we might as well work out what my accusers will say. And it’s true: The person who had the best, perhaps the only, opportunity to poison the amphora beforehand was me. But I didn’t. No one did. The seal was intact.”

“Seals can be tampered with.”

He shook his head. “I understand that you want to consider all possibilities, Papa. But the chain of logic leads directly to the alabaster vial. The vial was there, it was empty, and we know it contained poison.” He frowned. “What we don’t know is when and how it was poured into the wine, and whether it was poured into the opened amphora, poisoning all the Falernian, or only into the cup that Cleopatra offered to Caesar and then compelled Zoë to taste. Either way, I don’t see how it was done without any of us noticing. I broke the seal and opened the amphora myself; I poured the wine into the cup. I can’t imagine how the poison could have been added to the amphora; unless, of course, I did it myself.”

“Meto!”

“Sorry, Papa. But I did have the opportunity, and I don’t see how anyone else could have done it without my knowledge.”

“Then perhaps only the cup was poisoned. But when? Think back; let’s see if we both remember the sequence of events in the same order. The queen told Merianis to fetch the golden cups. Merianis brought them. The queen showed one of them to Caesar, then held it while you filled it from the amphora. She then presented the cup to Caesar, but before he could drink, she called for the taster. Zoë came. The queen handed the golden cup to Merianis; Merianis poured a bit of the wine from the golden cup into the clay vessel that Zoë had brought with her; Zoë drank from the clay vessel, and quickly succumbed to the poison. Is that how you remember it, Meto?”

He nodded.

I frowned. “But what happened to the wine that remained in the golden cup?”

Meto thought. “Merianis was still holding the cup when Cleopatra went to Zoë. But then Cleopatra called for Merianis, and Merianis put the cup down and ran to her mistress. They talked for a while, too low for the rest of us to hear; then Merianis went to fetch Apollodorus.”

“So Merianis put down the cup; but then what became of it?”

Meto shook his head. “It must have been gotten rid of at some point, to be sure no one drank from it. Yes, I remember now! It was after you left the island, Papa, with those men to escort you back to your room. The rest of us remained on the terrace. More men arrived shortly, the ones who brought me to this cell; but before that happened, the queen told Apollodorus to pour the wine from the cup back into the amphora—”

“Numa’s balls! Now the whole amphora has been poisoned, whether it was poisoned before or not! The amphora should have been left untouched.”

“Does it really matter, Papa?”

“Think, Meto! If only the wine in the golden cup was poisoned, and
not
the wine in the amphora, then we could prove that you didn’t poison the amphora and that the poison must have been added to the cup at some later point—a cup that was never in your possession! But now we have no way of knowing if the amphora was previously poisoned or not, since it’s surely poisoned now. This was done at the queen’s behest?”

“Yes.”

“And Caesar did nothing to stop it?”

“Caesar was busy questioning me at that moment. Neither of us took much notice of what was being done with the cup. But now that you ask me, I remember hearing Cleopatra say something about the cup being polluted, and that no one could ever drink from it again, and I remember seeing Apollodorus empty the cup into the amphora, out of the corner of my eye, so to speak.”

“Was the amphora saved?”

He wrinkled his brow. “I suppose so. Yes, I remember seeing Apollodorus replace the cork stopper, after he emptied the cup, and at the same time I was led off, I think one of Caesar’s men must have carried off the amphora; so I assume it’s in Caesar’s keeping. But as you say, we know already that it contains poison, if only because the wine in the cup was poured into it.”

“You’re right; I can’t see how the amphora will be of any use to us. I can’t see how any of this helps us.”
Especially,
I thought,
since all the circumstantial evidence points directly to your guilt, my son!
“Still, it’s unthinkable that a man of Caesar’s experience and judgment should have stood by and allowed a vital piece of evidence, like the amphora, to become hopelessly tainted.”

“Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Papa, but Caesar doesn’t do his best thinking when he’s in the presence of the queen.”

“Meto! Keep such thoughts to yourself.”

“Does it really matter what I say, Papa, or think, or do? This will be the end of me. I didn’t try to poison Caesar, but I shall nevertheless be punished for the crime. Perhaps it’s fitting. I stood by and did nothing when that Gaulish boy who haunts my dreams was orphaned and made a slave. No, that’s not true—I joined in the slaughter with my sword, and with my stylus I celebrated that slaughter by helping Caesar write his memoirs. Now I shall die for something I never did. Can you hear the gods laughing, Papa? I think the deities who hold sway over Egypt must be just as capricious and cunning as our own gods.”

“No, Meto! You will not be punished for a crime you didn’t commit.”

“If it amuses the gods, if it pleases Caesar, and satisfies Queen Cleopatra—”

“No! I shall find the truth, Meto, and the truth shall save you.”

He laughed without mirth and wiped a tear from his eye. “Ah, Papa, I
have
missed you!”

“And I have missed you, Meto.”